


To Conquer Death, You Only Have To Die

by Barbara69



Series: To Conquer Death [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone lives - I swear - at least the Inseparables, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, No Spoilers, Not Really Character Death, major character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 83,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There are those who are resurrected and there are those who are reborn.   –  And then, there are those who had been known far and wide as the Inseparables; where there was one, the others were not far......</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Musketeers AU set in modern day Paris. – The Inseparables die in the war with Spain but are reborn in the present time. Some remember the old times and some do not (yet). Athos shoulders the task to find his brothers and bring them all together again. When old friends and sworn enemies turn up, loyalty, courage and honor are put to the test and they'll have to fight to the death again.</p>
<p>Includes flashbacks of the war and how they die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue / Made Of Memories, Only You And I Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mentions and descriptions of dead Musketeers/Inseparables in the Prologue; if you don't want to read it, start with Chapter 1 further down, though I don't think the descriptions are too graphic.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to M_LadyinWaiting for doing the beta again; she was and is unstinting with her time and spent many hours with correcting errors, pointing out inconsistencies, answering questions and trying to find out what I meant to say when I had used erroneous translations. My deep gratitude for making this possible; I would neither write nor post fan fiction if it were not for her. 
> 
> Also heartfelt thanks to gecko10 who was so kind as to read the story as a WIP. She listened to my whining, asked pertinent questions, brainstormed with me when I was stuck and -above all- shares my love for Aramis. 
> 
> All remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are solely my responsibility. The Musketeers are property of BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction.

_There are those who are resurrected and there are those who are reborn._

_And then, there are those who had been known far and wide as the Inseparables; where there was one, the others were not far......_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Prologue

_The battlefields of Rocroi, on the 19th of May Anno Domini 1643*_

_Unceasingly, Tréville dragged his feet over shredded ground littered with corpses and bodies, broken weapons and broken hopes. He still bled, albeit lightly, from several wounds, including a bullet wound on his left thigh as well as a deep slash on his right upper arm. He had left the tents of the wounded after seeing the unbearable amount of dying men still coming in. There were so many in need of help more urgently than he and he hadn't been able to stomach the stench and screams anymore. None of his wounds were life threatening as far as he could judge and they didn't hinder him in fulfilling his duty. A duty he owed not only as Minister of War and commanding officer, but as man of honor and human being to those who had lost their lives on the battlefield today. It was the least he could do to honor the sacrifice of those under his command who had given their lives for king and country. Too many had died, too many good men had been lost on this black, bloody day, though in the end they had prevailed. Against all odds. France had come out of this day of bloodshed and tears victorious, inflicting such an overwhelming defeat on the Spanish troops that it would finally mark the end of the war. Though victorious was not the word he would ever choose when speaking of the events in the context of this day, should he live to give report about it._

_Through the smoldering air that had settled over the battleground, his eyes once again came to rest on a familiar figure and his heart bled at the sight of one of his men felled on the ground, one of the finest swordsmen in all of France. Tréville looked into the broken eyes of his regiment's captain and with no small amount of effort he bent his knee and lowered his body, grunting as he did so, to close the former comte's eyes forever. Athos' face for once looked neither haunted nor grim; an inner peace shone through the blood and grime, and Tréville hoped that, at last, Olivier d'Athos de Siguèlle, Comte de la Fère et de Bragelonne, had found the peace of mind he had striven for half his life. Tréville's gaze wandered again over the bodies scattered on the bloodied ground and his eyes caught on another familiar shape. Whispering a short prayer, he heaved himself up and limped over to where he had spotted the figure of the regiment's marksman, the blue sash shining like a beacon through the dreariness of the place. When he was close enough, Tréville realized that Aramis lay not alone; in dying his body had fallen, as if in a last act of protectiveness, over his closest friend, and joined in death he found Porthos as well, the big man's whole body covered in blood._

_Tréville had to avert his gaze for a moment, taking in a few shaky breathes. In the end, the Musketeers everyone had called the Inseparables had died the way they had lived and served; together. Gravitating to one another not only in life and service but in death as well. Ultimately, Tréville thought, it wasn't surprising at all that if one fell, the others would follow, too, for such was the nature of the bond they had shared. A wave of grief took hold of his heart and he had to close his eyes until it passed. For all that, he thought, God had graced the Inseparables with an act of kindness, given that none of them had had to live and mourn his fallen brothers. However, one was still missing, and Tréville resumed roaming his gaze over the battlefield....._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chapter 1

~Made Of Memories, Only You And I Hold~

_Quimper, France, now_

René stood on the station platform, eyes staring unseeingly into the distance while the station speaker blared about some delay or other. René didn't care about delays. He didn't know what had gotten into him, packing his backpack precipitately and buying a train ticket to Plogoff. _Plogoff,_ of all places! Sweet Jesus. What did he want there? He had never been there, but on an impulse it had felt right, and he damn sure wanted to be as far away from Paris as fast as possible. So, Plogoff had been alluring - reclusive and lonesome as it was - if what he had once read about that region was right, that is. For now, at this moment and in his current mood, it seemed the right place to go, to flee to. Not somewhere south, where the beaches were powdery and white, and the sun was warm and the wind caressing like a lover's embrace, smelling of pine wood and oleander. No, it had to be rough and cold and wind-whipped, where the wind could clear his mind and numb his feelings. Suited his mood so much better. Besides, truth be told, it had been one of the first trains to leave the _Gare du Nord_ , and he had jumped at the chance. Running away like a coward, licking his wounds.

He lifted his gaze and looked around. Here he was, at a small train station somewhere in the middle of _nowhere_ , waiting for his connecting train. _If_ there was a connecting train. He thought he had heard the speaker announcing some outage, delay, whatever. The rain, unremittingly drumming on the station's roof, reflected his current mood. Melting with the downpour was alluring, what would he give if he could just vanish in one of the puddles on the platform or seep into the earth, leaving this miserable, cruel world behind. “Oh, stop pitying yourself, it’s not the end of the world”, René muttered to himself, kicking a tiny stone into the roadbed before him. After all, it was not the first time a woman had left him, and not the first time a woman had left him for another, more profitable, more promising man she could spend her life with. No, he really hadn’t been too lucky with relationships those past couple of years.

Or altogether with people staying in his life instead of leaving him behind.

But maybe it was his problem, and his alone. It was not about people leaving him (going, _dying_ ), but his inability to cope with being left behind. About him wasting his lifeblood on things he believed in, caring more and feeling deeper than was good for him in this too fast living world. Oh hell, he would survive and only rise stronger from this episode. Had done it before. It wasn't so much being single and living alone yet again but rather having his heart ripped out and trampled on and then shoved back into his ribcage where it was trying to find his rhythm again, failing miserably at the moment. One definitely could find kinder words to end a relationship the other half had obviously believed in much stronger. It hurt, the way she had broken up and the words accompanying it.

A train entered the station on the opposite track from where René stood, slowing down with squealing brakes until it finally came to a complete standstill. The speaker announced something or other, but René didn’t even hear it, his mind whirling with the accusations and insults hurled at him less than a day ago. When his staring gaze caught on the train’s wheels, blocking his eyes’ view from whatever they had seen before, he slowly raised his head until his sight settled on the train's windows. He could see his reflection in the window, blurred and faint, and it was not a lovely sight to see. His whole bearing expressed the way he felt. If he had been a person with suicidal tendencies, this would have been the moment to take these couple steps more and let himself be run over by the next train entering the station. Luckily, he had neither suicidal thoughts nor would his faith, strained as it had been over the last couple of years, allow him to take his own life. Not to mention how his dear mother would never be able to cope with such! Furthermore, he had long ago learned that very few things in this world truly were worth sacrificing a life for. And his most recent partner was not among those. Sadly, he had to admit, this he had recognized ever since he had known her. 

The light shifted, clouds again blocking the spare rays of sunlight that had illuminated the station for a couple of minutes, and the reflection René had seen of himself faded. Instead, his eyes settled on a person sitting behind said window. Focusing now on the man behind the glass he realized that the person was staring back at him. Embarrassed René lowered his eyes, he hadn’t meant to stare and worried now what that person would think of him. 

But the man's face had stirred something in René, some long lost memory he couldn't grasp, a fleeting image of another time, another place, and he looked up again. The man was still staring at him, and René thought that the passenger looked more surprised than upset, though he also felt it rude of the other to now stare back at him. Meanwhile, the stranger had risen from his seat, fully facing René now, eyeing him intensively, mouth moving as if he was speaking with someone, albeit obviously being alone in the compartment. René had the feeling he should know the man, must have seen him before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where or when. With a loud bang the doors of the train shut and another squealing of the wheels announced the departure of the train. When the train slowly started to move, the man inside the car pressed even closer to the window, his left hand touching the glass, lips compressed into a thin line. René couldn’t avert his eyes from the departing train, following the man's figure until he couldn’t make him out behind the glass anymore. Staring at the red taillights of the leaving train, he wondered why his brain suddenly came up with Mount Athos in Greece. He had never been there, never been to Greece at all. No, not Mount Athos, just Athos, he realized. He hadn’t thought about a mountain when the name popped up in his mind. Wasn't there a red wine called Athos? Why did he think of it now?

He turned and scuffed over to a bench, slumping down regardless of the waterdrops that bedewed the seating surface. After ten minutes of shuffling his feet, fiddling with a loose thread on his hoodie's sleeve and absentmindedly watching the rain pour down, René realized that he had spent the whole time turning the name Athos over and over in his mind without volition. He closed his eyes. What was it with the man that he felt he should remember something? If seeing the face had caused that name to come to mind, he might once have met the man. But he couldn't recall ever having met a Monsieur Athos. Nor did he know of a company by that name. Maybe he had treated the man once, and the name had stuck because it was not a very common one. His colleague would know, she never forgot a name, something to do with an eidetic memory, or some such. He tried to shrug it off, he could ask her next week if he had not forgotten about it by then. 

And yet, something about the man's features still nagged at his mind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After two, almost fruitless, boring and dull days of observations in Brest, Athos felt more than entitled to drown his bad mood in wine. Lots of it. But it would be another couple of hours until he reached Paris, and then it would only be midday. Though it might not always look like it, even he usually had the decency not to start drinking before noon, and then only in reasonable amounts. He hoped his business partner and brother-in-arms was available this evening to keep him company. Drinking alone was another of those things from his past he was no longer prone to. Unlike in the years back then, he was almost fond of drinking in the company of others now. Well, other, singular, to be precise. The conductor announced the train's arrival in Quimper and Athos sighed at the unfairness of the world that he was confined to the compartment with no bar or bistro aboard this train.

Athos spotted the lone figure on the platform immediately when their train entered the station, and even from afar there was something alarmingly familiar in the way the figure stood there, the stature, the bearing. When his car came to a stop directly opposite the man, he studied the person, whose shoulders sagged as if bearing the world's brunt, head hanging in misery, and he knew beyond doubt it was their marksman. Former marksman. In this life, the man very likely followed another profession, but that didn't change the fact that it was Aramis nonetheless. Even if the hair was a little fairer and not as long as it used to be and the beard just a shadow of its former glory, the face was so achingly intimate Athos' heart stuttered for a moment. The man raised his head, and when their eyes met, Athos almost flinched at the forlorn and blank look lingering in the depth of them.

Athos rose from his seat and he had to restrain himself lest he would smash the window with his bare hand. Windows which were no longer openable in these confounded air-conditioned trains. He called Aramis' name, knowing at the same time it was a fruitless effort. Neither was the other man able to hear him calling, nor did he seem to pay any heed to Athos at all. And it looked very much like Aramis had no idea who Athos was, or, very likely, who he himself had once been.

 _“Merde!”_ Athos hollered and made to turn and leave the compartment to depart the train, but even before his hand had let go of the window he heard the doors shutting. Mesmerized by the sight of his long-lost friend, he had wasted that one minute he had needed to hop off the train. Now he could only stand there and watch Aramis getting smaller and smaller as the train gained ground. Aramis seemed to watch the train leave the station, too, so maybe, _maybe_ there was hope his friend had felt some kind of recognition at least. Two molecules trying to gravitate to each other in this galaxy would have higher prospects of success than one single nanoparticle had, trying to find a docking station in the universe. Frustrated, Athos curled his fingers into a fist, hitting the glass with an angry bang. For years he had searched and all fate had granted him now was a short glimpse of the friend he had been missing for too long, unable to find any information about his whereabouts.

Athos let himself fall back on the seat once the train station was no longer in sight. “Stop being overly dramatic,” he muttered to himself, ruffling through his unruly hair to clear his thoughts. He was sure there had been a short flicker of recognition in Aramis' eyes, gone before the other's mind had been able to register it. And yet, when Athos thought no cognizance had stirred in the other man's memory, Aramis had lifted his head again and stared back at him, uncertainty and desperation written all over the face. Athos had seen that look before, centuries ago, after Savoy, and it did not bode well for the other's well-being. Immediately he had recognized the desolation and despair pouring out of every fiber of their former marksman; he wished he knew what had befallen Aramis, he wished he could have stepped out of that cursed train car and approached the man before the doors had shut and the train started to move.

Athos grabbed his mobile and started searching for a match between that godforsaken small village they had just left and the names he had already typed a bazillion times now into various keyboards. René Herblay, René d'Herblay, Henri-René Herblay. Even before the results listed on the screen within the blink of an eye, he knew he would yet again get no match, get nothing. All those years he had never found the one René d'Herblay he was looking for, and now there were some Renés listed in connection with Quimper, but no Herblay and none fitting the age and none of those bloody awful many pictures that popped up had the slightest resemblance to Aramis. There was no certainty that Aramis still bore the same or a similar name, here and now, in this reality fate or God or providence had granted them, cursed them with. Whatever. Hell, in this universe he wasn't a _de la Fère_ anymore, what if Aramis had nothing at all in common name-wise with d'Herblay? Athos had nothing else to go on.

Gazing at the landscape, Athos pondered getting off the train at the next station, trying to get a taxi back to Quimper. Fingers flying over the touchscreen he searched for the train schedule to see where the next stop was, even before his mind had come to a conclusion in that regard. However, a quick calculation showed him that he wouldn't make it back to the station in time before the train Aramis obviously was waiting for was due. Though he had not yet checked on possible delays.

His phone buzzed, the number showing him it was Isaac.

“Olivier!” Isaac barked the moment Athos answered the call, the use of the proper first name a hint that someone else was with Porthos at the moment. “Madame Marchand is here with me. She insists you had promised to meet with her today about the Dupois case?” Porthos asked, even if he was pretty sure it was not true, because Athos would never forget a meeting with clients. “She says you promised to explain the report you sent her last week, about the lack of evidence in this case and – if I may quote her – your inability to allege facts,” Porthos added, well aware that Madame Marchand was within earshot. 

Athos sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. No use explaining that he simply had added a note at the end of his report, offering Madame Marchand the opportunity to contact him if she had any questions; and with that he hadn't meant materialize in the office out of the blue, expecting Athos would be there and have time for her. “Porthos, I already told her I cannot deliver what's not there. Even if I spend the next ten years on the case, observing her husband and monitoring his account activities, I won't be able to come up with the things she wants to hear or have proof for. I'm not going to make up lies about her husband to make her happy.” He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He knew it would be unfair to throw this at Porthos, however alluring it was. “I'm on my way back and will likely be in Paris around noon. If she is willing to wait, give her a coffee and I shall talk to her when I'm in the office.” 

The other man hummed his agreement and understanding. If it had been his call, he would tell the lady Monsieur d'Autevielle was not expected back until next week. Or had retired to Canada where he was counting grizzlies now or some such.

“And, Porthos,” Athos started but hesitated, unsure if he should tell the other of what he had just experienced. When the silence grew too long, Athos harrumphed. “Err, nothing, I'll see you later.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When his connecting train finally entered the station, René felt so worn out he had physical problems rising from the bench and walking over to the train. His backpack seemed to weigh tons and the few steps to the train's door stretched like miles. He entered the train and let himself fall on the first vacant seat he passed, throwing the backpack on the seat beside him. Head glued to the cold glass fogging now under his breath, he stared out of the window. He had made the mistake and wallowed for too long in his misery, had allowed the shadows to grow and now the memories were back. Unwanted, unbidden, unasked. Now he really felt desperately alone.

He didn't know if it had been the stranger's face, or rather the piercing eyes that had stirred something in him, a memory he felt at the back of his mind but couldn't grasp. Trying to remember where he had seen those eyes before had brought back other memories, memories of ones he had known, of his friends. Friends he had lost and still missed, sometimes to a point where it hurt just to think of them. Think of the happy times they had shared together.

He didn't know how often over the past years he had cursed that forsaken trip he and his friends had made together, a celebration of their life-long friendship, hiking in the Pyrenees like so many times before. Camping, hiking, laughing, enjoying life, and pretending they were still young. Daring and reckless, like the boys they had been in their younger years. Only, the celebration of life and friendship ended in death and despair. All had lost their lives, all but one. While they had shattered on a mountainside in Savoy, he had been the lucky one, the lucky devil, cursed to be left behind. 

The landscape behind the window turned into a blurred painting, houses and trees and rocky fields flying by, its borders smudging like an aquarelle painted with too much water. It took René a while to realize the blurriness came not from the rain still pouring down over Brittany but from the moisture in his eyes that had found its way down his cheeks.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos raised his glass to Athos, the third, if Athos had counted right. “Anyway,” the dark skinned man came to a closure of his account, “It's good you're back, I wouldn't have survived one single day more without you.” He gulped down half of his beer before putting the glass back to the wet spot on the table that had built from condensate. “Besides, drinking alone is only half the fun,” he smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What happened to Valerie?” Athos asked, perking his eyebrow the same way he had done all those centuries ago, comte and captain and secretive ironist shining through with an easiness that made the other man smile. Into whatever external circumstance they had been reborn, they were still the men they used to be, and that was a calming thought. “I always thought she is quite capable of drinking you under the table.”

“Don't even ask,” the other man replied, waving his hand vaguely.

Without that small smile accompanying the bigger man's words, Athos might have started to worry, though he wasn't quite sure about the current status of the relationship between those two. If they already had broken up and Porthos wanted to share what had happened between him and Valerie, he wouldn't hesitate to do so. If he didn't, Athos would be the last person to try and make another one talk about women. He had gained enough experience in that regard and felt far from needing to share any of those unpicturesque episodes. 

“Very well,” Athos muttered, sipping from his own glass of wine and taking some extra time to shape what he was going to say next. He looked around. As a matter of course, Porthos had joined him after they had finished talking about the Bonvièr case and Porthos had updated him on the last three days' daily business. Like so many nights before, they sat at a small table in their preferred tavern, a small restaurant that was just a stone's throw from the office, overlooking the Seine and Île de la Cité, and where an exceptionally good red wine from Chassagne-Montrachet was served. Athos took another sip, whirling the fine dark liquid around in his mouth for a moment before he let it run down his throat, savoring the fine taste. He knew he had to be careful with how he spoke of it. “Porthos.”

The serious tone his friend addressed him with caused the big man to sober and look at the older man. Though Athos wasn't and never had been prone to brimming over with mirth, the shift in their conversation's light bantering did not go unnoticed by Porthos. 

“I think, no, I _know_ I saw him today. At the train station in Quimper, waiting for a westbound train, I guess.” Athos eyed his friend and co-partner, certain Porthos would know whom he talked about even without voicing a name.

Porthos kept totally still. No reaction came, other than him staring at Athos, waiting for the older man to continue.

“I don't think he recognized me, but..., “ Athos trailed off. “There was some kind of flicker, a surprised look. Maybe....” He fell silent again. What could he tell about that short encounter?

Porthos shoveled breath into his lungs as if it was the last chance in his life to do so. “How did he look?” was all he was able to press through his teeth, thinking of all the _years_ he had yearned for this moment to happen.

Athos had never shrunk from danger in his life, _lives_ to be precise, and he did not now. “Lost,” he offered before he could think about his answer properly, immediately adding, lest Porthos choke on too much air gulped in, “no, I mean, all in all he looked like always, you know, like _Aramis_.” Athos hesitated a moment, searching for fitting words. “Perhaps not as charming as usual. A little depressed, maybe, from what I saw. And I really don't think he has any clue who I was or who he is.” 

Porthos had wrapped both hands around his beer and Athos feared the glass might break under the other's firm grip. “What do you suggest we do?” the bigger man asked, pointedly avoiding his former captain's gaze. Porthos didn't want the other to see the hope and fear of disappointment battling for supremacy in his eyes. Finding Aramis had been his top priority, ever since Porthos had remembered his former life. For Porthos, Aramis had been like the brother the big man never had had, not in this and not in his former life. And getting this brother back was what he wanted and needed more than anything else. “Do you have a plan?”

Athos knew that whether or not he had a plan, which incidentally he hadn't, nothing would stop Porthos from demanding they do _something_. For lack of a good plan, Porthos would smash something to pieces, so Athos knew he should hurry to come up with anything.

“Well, not exactly a plan, but I'd say let's do something spontaneous.”

Porthos raised a brow, staring at his friend. “Spontaneous. You. That's an inconsistency in and of itself.”

“I know, but there's no time like the present and I really don't have time nor money to mend whatever you'll destroy if we leave this bar without a purpose. So, since this might be our only chance and I really have nothing better to offer, let's close the office for a couple of days. I can finish with the Denaux case tomorrow and there are no pressing assignments, as far as I know. The rest we can postpone. I already checked about the train schedules at Quimper. There were only two trains due for arrival on platform 3 today, one about an hour later and one in the afternoon. There was some delay with a connecting train, otherwise the first train would have been through much earlier.” Athos paused for a moment to think about how he never would have seen Aramis if the train had been on time. Which was unlikely on any given day, but still, sometimes they _did_ run on schedule. Perhaps, he might never want to complain about delayed trains ever again. “Anyway, both trains leaving Quimper westbound were heading to Plogoff. End station, obviously. Let's drive there and see if we find something. Maybe Aramis headed in that direction on business or holiday or he lives there.”

Athos didn't think any of these options were the case here, but he was not willing to tell Porthos so. Aramis had not looked like a man who was going on a holiday in Brittany that day nor did it look like he had business to see to there. As far as he recalled he had seen some kind of backpack or duffle bag, but then again Aramis hadn't struck him as a man on his way to a holiday. Returning home? Maybe. His flow of thoughts was interrupted by Porthos.

“And if not? What if he departed somewhere along the way? How many stations are there between Quimper and Plogoff? Maybe he didn't even travel but waited for someone to arrive. Or he was on the wrong platform and changed sides later.”

“Do you not want to find him?” The moment the words left Athos' mouth he knew they must be like a punch to the other man's guts, and he regretted saying so.

Porthos moved so his face was only inches away from Athos, the big man's eyes mere slits under furrowed brows. When he spoke, it was sharp and hissy. “Of course I want to find him. Never doubt this. I only say it's chasing clouds what you suggest. We cannot stop and search in every town and village on the way from Quimper to whatever hicksville he headed to. _If_ he headed westwards from Quimper.“

Athos wondered when in life their roles had been switched. Shouldn't it be him speaking sobering words? Plotting and planning before running off on a wild-goose chase? Shouldn't it be Porthos mounting a horse and chasing after his friend, captain's orders be damned? But then he saw the look in his friend's eyes. Porthos was afraid. Afraid to see his hopes crushed, afraid they would search and not find Aramis. That they would have to return to Paris without him and forfeit maybe their only chance in this life to get Aramis back.

“No, we can't. But we can try. It's worth a try I'd say. Who says we won't be lucky again?” Once before had they had to go after their brother to fetch and bring him home. And succeeded. “Maybe we are lucky and if not, we have at least tried.”

There was silence.

“When have I ever made irrational decisions?” Athos grasped the other man's forearm, forcing him with this gesture to look up.

“Never. Not now, and definitely not back then,” Porthos finally replied evenly.

A small smile crept over Athos' face. “See? You should jump in the air happily if you ever hear me say something as stupid as 'let's go somewhere and try to find Aramis, even if we have no idea if he is anywhere in a 1000 kilometer radius of where we are heading to'. And I'm more than determined to do exactly that.”

“Well, now that you say it, it sounds like a brilliant idea!” Porthos grinned. “I'm sure I'm more than entitled to a little vacation and I've never been to Brittany. Where do we start then, in Plogoff or whatever the name is? Is it big?”

“No, not that big, though during vacation season it's swamped with tourists. This time of the year I don't think there are many people there, so we might be lucky if we start checking with hotels and inns. If Aramis is not living there and went there.... for vacation.” Athos had been on the brink of saying 'to sort out whatever troubles him', but that was something he would discuss with Porthos once they were on their way. “I think I can imagine where he might aim for.”

Athos was thinking of sharp cliffs and blustering waves and boisterous wind. The Aramis he had known might be looking for solitude, time to think and sort his thoughts and feelings, and Point du Raz would be perfect for it. Oh God, he hoped the man had really jumped a train to the most western part of Brittany and was still there.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some facts:
> 
> *The Battle of Rocroi of 19 May 1643 resulted in the victory of the French army against the Spanish army only five days after the accession of Louis XIV to the throne of France, late in the Thirty Year's War. The battle is considered to be the turning point of the perceived invincibility of the Spanish tercio. It was also of symbolic importance, as it was one of the few major battlefield defeats of a Spanish army in over a century and, moreover, a defeat of one of its most famous units.
> 
> On 17 May the French augmented their garrison in Rocroi with additional 150 Musketeers, on 18 May the armies took up position southwest of Rocroi and started with shelling artillery. On 19 May at 10 am the battle was over. The French had prevailed.
> 
> The total Spanish losses were about 7,000 dead, wounded, or captured. French losses were about 4,000
> 
> In this universe, Alexandre Dumas has not written The three Musketeers, therefore no such books exist and therefore no such names as Athos, Porthos or Aramis are known as “The three Musketeers” in modern times. What exists in this universe, however, are those Musketeers that served with King Louis XIII of France in the 17th century and whose names may be known loosely as Athos, Porthos and Aramis, if one is interested and looks up French history. The names of those three Musketeers might differ slightly from the names used in the show, but the characters are the very same. To bring the historical and show Musketeers in some kind of line, and for plot reasons, I have mixed the names of the 17th century Musketeers with our show Musketeers:
> 
> **Athos** \- Armand de Sillègue d’Athos d’Autevielle, Comte de la Fère et de Bragelonne / Olivier d'Athos, Comte de la Fère  
>  **Aramis** \- Henri d’Aramitz (son of Charles d'Aramitz and Catherine d'Espaloungue de Rague of Béarn) / René d'Herblay   
> **Porthos** \- Isaac de Porthau (also Portau or Portaut) / Porthos du Vallon  
>  **d'Artagnan** \- Charles de Batz de Castelmore, comte d’Artagnan / Charles d'Artagnan
> 
> As far as I know, there's no train connection between Quimper and Plogoff. For plot reasons and because I can I have implemented a train connection between both towns.
> 
> Story title is taken from the musical Jesus Christ Superstar, Poor Jerusalem
> 
> Chapter titles are all lines of songs from Rea Garvey


	2. I know you hide behind those clouds of despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Athos' impression was right about what mood Aramis was in at the moment, it was definitely time to find him. Who knew what the marksman was up to if nobody was there to look after him?

In the end, it took them one day more than originally planned to settle and organize everything so that they could be away from the office for a couple of days without losing upset clients. The office's good soul, Charlène, secretary and maid-of-all-work in one person, was instructed how to handle clients and incoming calls. Not that this would have been necessary; being almost as old as both men together Charlène had about as much experience in this branch of business. So it was more for the benefit of her employer rather than necessary that she received instructions for the next days, and all involved knew it. As not to lose more time, Porthos and Athos decided to drive now, in the evening, finally entering Athos' car to start with the six hour drive to Plogoff. They would try to book rooms on their way and note a late arrival. 

Porthos broached the subject of Aramis' possible whereabouts as soon as they were out of Paris and could step on the gas. “So, where do you think we can find him?” Though they both were pretty good at observing persons and finding missing people, they usually had some kind of clue where to look for them. In this case, they had almost nothing, not even as much as a name. If Porthos was sure of one thing it was the fact that Aramis was definitely _not_ the name their marksman went by in this life.

“If Aramis traveled to Brittany, passing Quimper enroute and then further west, I think I know where we might find him.”

“So? How comes? We don't even know if he is living there, or only passing through. Brittany is still a vast area to search for someone.”

Athos darted a quick glance at his co-driver before turning his eyes back on the road. “I came from Brest heading to Paris. Platforms one and two service the quick connection between Brest and Paris, platforms three and four are for regional traffic. Platform three only had two departing trains that day, both heading to Plogoff. And I think if Aramis traveled further east, I'm sure he headed for Plogoff.”

“And so because?” Porthos asked, eager to hear the other man's theory.

“I told you he looked a little.... lost.” After another quick glance at Porthos, assessing the other man's reaction, Athos revealed further. “Like back then after Savoy, you remember that vacant expression he displayed more often than not? If I remotely know this version of Aramis as well as I did back then, I'd say we start at Plogoff, concentrating on the cape area around Point du Raz. It could just be the place Aramis would turn to in a mood like that.”

Porthos didn't reply immediately, turning over in his mind what the other had explained. If Athos' impression was right about what mood Aramis was in at the moment, it was definitely time to find him. Who knew what the marksman was up to if nobody was there to look after him? A small smile crept over Porthos' face when he became aware of the fact that they were on their way to _find Aramis!_

“Yeah, you might be right though I've no idea what's so special about that place. You would know better since you’ve traveled in the area. I guess it's as good a place to start searching as any other.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

René sat dangerously close to the cliff's edge, the wind tugging at his clothes, tousling his wet hair. The light rain mingled with the spray carried up from the waves crushing against the coastline beneath. He was almost soaked through, not that he had registered that fact yet. His eyes were focused on the lighthouse not far from the coastline, the _Phare de la Vieille,_ though he wasn't aware of staring at it either. His thoughts wandered and whirled and refused to calm down.

While walking the coastal paths of the peninsular these last days, eyes always out to the ocean, searching for something his mind could catch and calm on, his feet had grown weary and his mood had descended further. This afternoon he had had to force his feet to drag themselves over the rough ground; if the room he had rented had not gotten him down even more due to its dreariness, he wouldn't have found his way towards the coast today. The room's walls had threatened to crush him, the open space and harsh wind so much more preferable to the run-down lodgings. If only he didn’t feel so worn out. 

Were his friends still alive, he wouldn't have to sit here now. He would be sitting at _Chez Pierre_ with Suhaib and Thomas, drinking away the cruel imponderables life imposed on them. Every so often, Suhaib would put his arm around René, whispering words of Arabic wisdom in his ear. And he would display his toothy grin, cheering and dragging René out of his hole of wretchedness until they all would be too drunk to walk straight anymore, snickering at the most unfunny remarks or gestures until the barman would deny them any more drinks. Thomas would most likely have hauled him home afterwards to the place his friend shared with Janique, knowing that René would end in some unholy place rather than his own bed if Thomas let him wander off alone. Thomas would have made up the couch for him and listened to his wailing once the alcohol started to ease off.

Or he would have made the one hour metro ride to Fabrice and spent the weekend there. Staying at the home his friend had only left for the years he had studied, first in Paris and later in Yale, wouldn't have allowed him one minute to wallow in self-pity. The manor house had been in the possession of Fabrice's family since the times of Napoléon Bonaparte, and Fabrice's parents, his two sisters, one of them married to a nice Spaniard, with three adorable children, all lived on the vast estate. The sheer number of people proved a recipe for livening things up, and most certainly there was always enough work to do, so an additional pair of helping hands was more than welcome. More than once René had spent a couple of days there, letting himself be swept away by the _joie de vivre_ at the place and be grounded again by the warm welcome, the honest work and friendly atmosphere that permeated the place. Fabrice had taken over the business from his father once he had earned his degree, running the estate that included a small guest house as well as the stud farm, and there had always been an open door and cosy guest room for René. But that all had been before that fatal trip. 

None of these options were available anymore, had been taken from him. He had had neither time nor will to form any new friendships beside the loose collegial acquaintances he had established at work. But those were not people he would or could turn to in times of need, however nice and kind they were. Most of the time, René had only had his current partners to pour out his woes to. A light smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Of course, there were always his mother and older sister to turn to, to get problems off his chest. But they were far away in Spain, and talking about such things via the phone line was not always easy, and they had enough everyday life problems of their own.

René's gaze swept further north, passing another lighthouse, much further away than _la Vieille_ , his eyes following some seagulls floating on the wind's drift. He had pondered going to see his mother, but very soon discarded that option. Despite the horrendous price he would have had to pay for a flight ticket to Sevilla on such a short notice – and he currently hadn't any spare money for such luxury – his mother would have started fussing over her only son the moment he had set foot into the finca and would have refused to let him leave only two or three days later. Being with his mother and the finca's old hand, Raoul, and Teresa, who still did most of the cooking for the household, always felt so much like _home_ that he wasn’t willing to leave it anytime soon again. Even if the grief over his father's untimely passing still cast a cloud over the place. So, in the end, here he was, alone, wallowing in self-pity and on the verge of sinking into depression. René sighed. As good as it was to be away from the city, be away from everything, the rough weather and loneliness was starting to grate on his nerves. He was still off schedule for two more days, after that he would either have to return to Paris or call in sick. 

At the horizon René could make out a touch of orange, telling him that the daylight would soon start fading and that he should make his way back if he wanted to catch the last bus to the village. The rain had stopped and René rose, determined to shake off the greyness of life and turn his thoughts to more positive aspects.

Reaching the peak of the coastal path he was following on his way back, Aramis saw two figures approaching him on the small trail. From here he could already make out the parking lot, almost deserted now, which was not uncommon for this time of the year and the late afternoon hour. The small visitor center meanwhile had closed and the couple of coaches that had been there earlier were gone. Since it was out of season and only a few tourists found their way to the cape, most of the time he had strolled the coastline on his own, seldom encountering other people on his long walks. When the two men came nearer, Aramis stepped to the side to let them pass, turning his gaze to the Atlantic ocean stretching before him.

“ _Bonjour,”_ one of the men greeted and came to a halt a few meters away from René.

 _“Bonjour,_ ” René replied with a nod, hardly looking at the men before turning his gaze away again. He certainly was not in the mood for small talk, though both of them seemed to expect more than a simple greeting from him.

“Excuse me, but how far is it to the cape?”

René turned again to face the man who had spoken and couldn't suppress the surprise he felt, now that he took a closer look at the man. He had seen the man before, though he wasn't sure where. The other man, bigger and dark skinned, looked at René as intently as if the man's life depended on his answer.

“Not far, one and a half kilometers, two at the most if you follow this path here, but watch out, the path is pretty slippery, so you might want to walk slower once you are on rocky ground.”

“I'll bear that in mind, thank you. Can we see the lighthouse from there?” The big man asked, taking a step towards René.

“Isaac only agreed to join me if he can have a look at the lighthouses,” the other man added, pointedly looking at his companion, also taking a step towards René.

“Sure, you can see both the _Phare de la Vieille_ as well as _Phare de Tévennec,_ but you should hurry, the weather is getting worse and dusk is not far off.” René stepped around both men to get on the path again behind them. “If you are lucky you might even glimpse the lighthouse on _Île de Sein_ , though _Ar Men_ is too far out. Good luck.” René picked up his trail again.

“Wait!” the dark skinned men called, making as if to follow René, grabbing René's arm once he had reached him.

“Porthos,” the other man called out almost simultaneously, but didn't move from where he stood.

“Hey!” René shouted. Yanking his arm away from the other, René took more steps back, keeping eye-contact with the bigger man as he did so.

“Porthos,” the other man called once again, calmer and quieter now, “Leave him alone.” All the while his eyes unwaveringly remained glued to René. 

Turning to the older man, René burst out, “Porthos? Didn't you just call him Isaac a minute ago? What do you want?” An uneasiness settled in René's stomach, a nagging feeling that he missed something here. His gaze slid down to the man's feet. He wore expensive leather shoes, not suited for hour-long walks on rocky paths. Now that René looked more closely he realized that neither man’s clothing was fitting for the weather conditions here. René took a further step back.

“Ah, yes,” Athos answered, “you're right. It's just kind of monikers we use. His is Porthos, I'm Athos.”

René almost stumbled back as if he’d been slapped. This couldn't be coincidence. Images danced in his mind, the train station, the man in the car on the opposite track staring back at him, the name he had turned over and over in his head. Athos. Yes, this man standing in front of him now was the man he had seen that day. Only, in his mind's eyes the image of the man in front of him started blurring and changed into another image, one he had seen so often in his dreams lately. A face with longer hair, more beard, blood and grime covering it.

“That can't be,” René whispered, taking even more steps away from the two strangers. “What do you want from me?”

“You have heard these names before, haven't you?” Athos asked, facial expression turned into the façade he had honed for years. “There's something you remember about us.”

“No,” René replied, more angrily than was necessary, “I don't remember anything related to any of you, because there is nothing to remember. I know neither of you, kindly stop harassing me and let me go my way. Good day.” Though he sounded determined and angry, the uncertainty lingering in his voice could be heard, if one knew him well. Which, unfortunately for him, these two opposite him seemed to do well enough to pick up on every nuance in his voice or twitch in his face. Before René could turn and storm away, the one called Porthos addressed him again. 

“Aramis,” Porthos said, almost sounding desperate, stepping forward again as if trying to stop the other from bolting. “Do you really not recognize us? Do you not remember anything?” He turned to Athos, not sure how they should go on without ruining everything. 

“Aramis,” Athos picked up where Porthos had stopped, “I know it sounds weird, but we three knew each other centuries ago, shared a life together, fought together side by side. Is there nothing you remember when you look at our faces?” 

“What? Like being reborn or reincarnated? Or like Gandalf the Grey, living for aeons and lifetimes?” René laughed almost hysterically, a little afraid now that he either dealt with lunatics or was going crazy himself. “What are you, members from some cult?” He turned his head sideways to assess the distance he would have to run to reach the parking lot, and how long it would take him to get there. The bus back to town was nowhere in sight nor was any other human being on the plateau. It appeared he was completely alone with those two madmen.

“No.” Athos shook his head. “I know it sounds strange, but would it really be so odd, so out of the question for you if we had known each other in an earlier life?” Athos knew the answer he would get even before he had finished the sentence. He could have slapped himself for letting the words drip off his lips without thinking first; if anyone had asked him the same question years ago, he would have been fed up with such nonsense much earlier and probably punched in the face whoever had dared to ask. 

“Yes, by all means! Definitely! And stop calling me Aramis as if I were an Olympian god. I have to disappoint you, I'm Catholic and don't believe in reincarnation or Greek gods or such nonsense. We die and are resurrected. Not coming back to this earth. Sorry.” René wondered why he was still standing here, talking to these lunatics, why he didn't just turn and walk away, but he had to admit he couldn't assess the big man's reaction. It was a pretty good bet he stood no chance against the brawny hulk. 

“It's Artemis, not Aramis,” Athos explained, even if nobody was interested in a little history lesson, “the Greek god, I mean, but never mind.”

René rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks, who cares?” He was determined to end this now. “Look, whatever cult or religion you follow, I'm not interested, I have always been and always will be, Catholic. No one will ever convince me to change my beliefs. If you would --” René was interrupted mid-sentence. 

“I know,” Athos uttered quietly, understanding and knowing coloring the few words.

“Oh, do you? How comes, since you never had the faith in God I --” René's eyes widened, the shock of his words reflecting in the dark pupils. Where had _that_ come from? He didn't _know_ this man, nor did he know anything _about_ him!

Athos' expression didn't change, but he heard Porthos gasp beside him. Athos simply kept looking at Aramis, studying the man in front of him even closer. The next few moments were crucial now.

Another image flashed in René's mind, and he decided that this was exactly the right time to turn and run. Before his muscles could contract to make the first move, however, the bigger man spoke again. And it surprised René once more, that, very obviously, both of them were not only able to read his very thoughts but also seemed to know exactly what moves he planned or answers he might give.

“Wait, don't run away.” Porthos put both hands in front of himself, as if trying to calm down a foal. “We only want to talk to you. If you don't believe a word we say or think we're crazy, very well, we won't bother you anymore. Promise. But please just hear us out. Just once. We don't mean any harm nor are we some kind of lunatics, even if it might look like it now. Just, please. Give us a moment to explain. That's all we ask. “ 

René neither moved nor responded, he simply didn't know what to think of this. He refused to let any of it seep into his mind, it was nonsense what they spoke of and not worth thinking about. And yet, when the man called Porthos had spoken, it was with such an aching sincerity and desperation, it was hard to believe they meant to harm him.

“We are staying at the _Quatre Vens_ on Rue Pierre Brossolette in Plogoff. There is a small _bistrot_ in the basement. We'll be there tonight if you decided to hear us out.“ Athos looked over to Porthos, then back to René. “We would be very glad if you decided to at least come and let us explain.”

“Please,” Porthos added, putting all his emotions into the single word. 

René turned without replying and made his way back to the parking lot. He dared not look back to see if they followed him, but strained to listen for footsteps coming after him. He heard nothing, but that might also be accounted for by the rushing in his ears. Right before he reached the parking lot, the bus rolled in and stopped at the bus stop. Aramis boarded as soon as he arrived, only then daring to look up the path he had hurried down. He could see the two figures still standing where he'd left them, observing the parking lot, rather than the Atlantic ocean stretching on the right side. René closed his eyes, trying to relive and make sense of the encounter and conversation he had had up on the cliffs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The opening door brought in a squall of cold and rain, causing the little candles on the small tables to flicker, but Athos and Porthos didn't notice it. Both men's eyes were glued to the flickering light in the fireplace. The fire created a homely atmosphere and spread a comforting warmth through the room. Both were on their third or fourth glass, Athos red wine from Languedoc and Porthos a dark beer. They had eaten and talked and waited for Aramis to show up, but now it was late and both knew Aramis wasn’t coming. They couldn't force someone to remember anything, and just because they did, didn't mean that others would as well.

Athos had found Porthos only after the former _comte_ had started his search, though it had been pure luck that they had met. Anne he had found without volition, but only realized who she was after they had divorced and that had been even before he had gotten his memory back. It had been a shock to him, making the same mistake twice, but then it seemed they all were bound to their former lives in one way or the other. Thankfully, Anne had not killed a brother of him in this century, though meanwhile he thought her quite capable of doing so nowadays, too. He had no idea if she remembered as well, she had never made any remarks or given an impression in that regard.

Athos glanced over to the bigger man. He didn't want to think about how their lives might have turned out if they had not met. It definitely had been a godsend for him, probably for both of them, but he could see that Porthos was suffering. There had always been a special bond between Aramis and Porthos, and seeing Aramis near and yet so far away, unaware of who they were, hurt Porthos.

A shadow fell over the table and Athos turned to tell the waiter that no, they didn't want to order anything else and yes, he should bring the bill, but his breath caught and he had to clear his throat to get the useless air out of his lungs. At the table stood Aramis.

“I only came to--,” René trailed off, gaze shifting to Porthos who turned the moment he had started speaking. “I don't know why I'm here and I don't believe one single word you said, but...” René gripped the back of the chair in front of him, clinging to it as if holding on to a lifeline, his knuckles turning white from the sheer force. Taking a deep breath, René continued, “I'm determined to hear what you want to say. If only to get rid of you and maybe learn why my mind seems to connect the name Athos with your face.”

Athos gestured to the chair René was still gripping. “Won't you take a seat? I'm glad you came.”

Porthos nodded his consent, smiling brightly. “I really thought you weren’t coming anymore, but I'm glad you did and are giving us a chance to explain. Even if it might sound a bit weird.” Porthos laughed, “Can't really blame you for it.”

After a moment's hesitation René pulled out the third chair, unwinding his scarf while he sat down. “Don't get me wrong, I don't believe anything of this reincarnation thing you talked about. It's.... it's just not possible and against everything I ever believed in life. But --” René broke off, searching for how to put into words what he wanted these two strangers to understand. 

“But yet you feel something about it must be true? And you would like to hear an explanation for the strange dreams you have?” René's eyes widened in surprise and Porthos knew his words had hit home.

“How do you ...” René closed his mouth with an audible click. He really didn't want these two to think he would give any credit to what they said.

“Because it was the same with us, too,” Athos replied calmly. “We both had dreams, bad dreams, nightmares in my case, and waking up in the morning sometimes left a lingering feeling that it was not only dreams, but things we must have experienced in a life before. Even if we knew we hadn't.” Athos looked over to Porthos who nodded approvingly. “I believe we still owe you a proper introduction,” Athos continued, pointing to Porthos. “This is Isaac Porthau, better, and formerly, known as Porthos. I am Olivier d'Autevielle. Athos,” he added with an abbreviated obeisance.

René's eyes moved from one to the other as Athos introduced them.

“And you, I believe,” Athos stated, squinting at René so as to not miss a reaction, “must be called something like René Herblay, or Henri-René d'Herblay, or something along these lines. Don't know what your name would be nowadays. To us you are Aramis.”

The color drained from René's face. Either these two were some kind of criminals who had spied on him for whatever reasons and probably already knew every password he used on his various accounts, or – and this was an even more frightening thought – they really were telling some kind of ludicrous, twisted truth.

They didn't look like criminals to him, especially the bigger one wore an open, friendly expression, eyes speaking of warmth and trust and sympathy. The other looked more incommunicative, but honest nonetheless. On the other hand, René never had had much luck judging people. Too quickly and open-heartedly he trusted, only to be disappointed bitterly sooner or later. And wasn't it the nature of criminals to look trustworthy, elsewise they wouldn't be able to do whatever evil things they planned?

René shoved his chair back, intending to rise and leave this place as fast as possible, but his legs moved on their own account. More precisely they didn't move, so his butt remained glued to the chair and his feet to the ground, eyes frantically switching between both men. René cleared his throat. “Where do you have that name from?”

Athos, almost like explaining something for the umpteenth time to an unwilling child, answered. “I already told you. We knew each other years ago. Centuries ago, to be exact. You, me, Porthos, d'Artagnan. We served together in the Musketeer regiment, back in the 17th century.”

René huffed a laugh. It kept getting more and more ridiculous. “Do you two even hear yourselves? And no, my name is not René d'Herblay.” He had to swallow, his mouth suddenly as dry as Wasa bread. He didn't want to tell them, the words pressing forward nonetheless. “My name is René-Henri Espaloungue.” He hesitated another second before adding, softer, “I share my mother's maiden name, my father was Henri d'Herblay.” Shaking his head he mumbled, more to himself, “Why am I even telling you this?”

“So, if you bore your father's name you would be called René-Henri d'Herblay? That suits.” Porthos was delighted with the other man's revelation, and it showed on his face. Certainly Aramis would soon see reason now, if they gently pushed on. “I bet either your mother or father hails from Spain.”

No. Nononono, it was all wrong. Where had they gotten all those information from? What did they want? Wouldn't he remember if they really were telling the truth? Why hadn't he been able to think straight since he had first seen that stranger's face on the train? What had prompted him to come and meet them here and now?

“Look, we know--,” Porthos interrupted himself, “ _knew_ each other like the back of our hands. We not only served together in the regiment, we were brothers, spent many nights together in taverns, went through thick and thin together. Dressing downs from Tréville, quarrels with Richelieu, boring palace guard. One for all, all for one and that, you know.” Porthos desperately wanted Aramis to remember _something_ and pressed on with it. “After that unfortunate, errm, incident in Savoy we became real close and ---”

“What would you know of Savoy!” René burst out, rising so quickly his chair crashed to the floor. “Don't you dare speak of Savoy. You know nothing of it!” he hissed, eyes like blazing orbs in a pale sky.

Athos and Porthos looked up startled and shocked by the sudden outburst. Porthos threw a quick glance at Athos. How on earth could the mention of Savoy have had such an impact on Aramis who allegedly refused to remember?

Athos' hand shot forward, gripping René's wrist before he could retreat. “If you remember Savoy, if you remember twenty dead Musketeers in the woods with you, then you must remember us!” Athos' voice was almost pleading, but he couldn't care less at the moment, he would beg if need be.

René looked down at Athos' hand on his arm as if looking at a disgusting bug. Then his gaze slowly rose to look Athos in eye. “Let go of me,” René said in a deadly calm voice, though it was almost inaudible through the pub's noise level. No one was watching the three men at the small table in front of the fireplace. Any bystanders who might have been disturbed by Aramis' raised voice and turning chair had already resumed whatever they had been doing before.

Even before René spoke again, Athos realized that they had lost Aramis, that they fought a losing battle. One look into his friend's eyes, the friend who had known him better than anyone else, who had been able to read his very soul, who had shared his deepest secrets and fears, had no idea what they were talking about and no intention of finding out. If Aramis left now, they might never be able to speak to him again, see him again. They could only hope that someday the memory would return and Aramis would then be willing to search and find them. At least, they had given him their names and knew what name Aramis went by now. Athos slowly released his grip and withdrew his hand.

“I will pretend I did not hear you making fun of my friends who lost their lives in Savoy,” René whispered, voice catching on the word Savoy, “but I don’t want to ever lay eyes on you again.” He raised his hand to stop Porthos from interrupting. “I don't know what you two are up to, and for a moment I really thought you might be honest and there could be more behind this whole 17th century-reborn-story. But you are just two sick men who don't even stop at the memory of the deceased.” René turned and stormed out of the pub. 

“Porthos, sit down,” Athos gestured to his friend who had risen the moment René turned away from the table. “There is no use going after him. Leave him alone.”

“No. I can't,” Porthos replied with a pained expression. “You can't demand that from me.”

“Porthos!” Athos cursed when the big man made his way towards the door without looking back. Athos fumbled for his wallet and fished out a couple of Euro notes, throwing them on the table. Grabbing his jacket, he hurried after Porthos.


	3. With my feet here on this foreign soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Yet, he lacked the strength to rise, lacked the will to wield his sword for king and country one last time, feeling more tired and worn out than he had ever before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** There's a flashback to the war and descriptions of how some of the Inseparables die. If you don't want to read how they died, just skip the part that is written in _italics_ , though again I think the description is not overly graphic.

~With my feet here on this foreign soil~

When the door slammed home behind him, René took a couple of deep breathes to calm himself down before turning left. He had to restrain himself from running, but picked up speed to quickly increase the distance between him and them. Being reminded of his dead friends had been the top of his day and he really regretted going at all. He had almost felt some tiny kind of hope that there _might_ be some truth in the weird stories they told. The remark about Savoy had brought him back down to earth with a bang.

In the quiet of the street he heard the tavern's door open and close again. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Isaac had left the pub as well, obviously searching for him. René picked up even more speed. He heard another faint bang, followed by Olivier's voice calling out to them.

“Wait for heaven's sake! This is ridiculous!”

René wanted to shout back that deriding his friends' deaths was far from being ridiculous, but thought it was not worth it. Another glimpse over his shoulder confirmed that both men were following him now. Not yet jogging, but on the brink. René himself was walking very fast, just short of running, with every intention of leaving them as far behind as he could. Tomorrow he would travel back to Paris and hopefully never be bothered by either of them again. Bringing his head to the front again René instantly realized, even out of the corner of his eye, that he had misjudged the distance between his foot and the kerb. He tried to lengthen his stride to step over the kerb completely, but it was not enough and he landed with only half of his foot on the edge, the front half dangling in the air for a split second before his heel painfully slipped down the kerb, causing his ankle to twist and his leg to turn into wobbly jelly. Arms flailing wildly, he tried to get his balance back, but failed miserably and sprawled on the road like a cut tree, his head hitting the tarmac. His vision went almost black for a second or two before a bright light burst in his head, turning the night around him into a blazing white. He heard footsteps approaching and a moment later Olivier and Isaac knelt down, left and right beside him, though René only saw them as though looking through a white cloud. 

“You okay?” Isaac asked, “Are your hurting anywhere?”

René looked to the man, seeing his mouth move, but didn't understand what the other said, a faint ringing and strange swoosh blocking his hearing, and some kind of white fog still misted his sight. Only, it was not Isaac kneeling beside him and speaking, it was Porthos.

“Porthos,” Aramis breathed, and then the intensity of the swoosh crescendoed and with an incredible speed images flashed before his mind's eye, overlaying with his surroundings. Images he was familiar with from dreams he had had over the years but had never been able to remember or re-imagine in the mornings. A king. _The_ king. King Louis XIII whom he had served. The garrison. Captain Tréville, his fellow Musketeers. Porthos, Athos, d'Artagnan. His sisters, his mother, Isabelle, the queen. _Anne_. His son. He gasped, struggling for air when the dauphin's face flashed before his eye. He had fathered a son.....

“Aramis, are you all right?” Porthos asked worriedly, lightly touching the other's shoulder. Porthos saw Aramis' eyes staring into a far distance and could only guess what was happening to his Musketeer brother in this moment. Athos and he had, after all, experienced similar things once the memories had started flooding back. 

.... Savoy, Marsac. Rochefort. The war. Yes, he had seen this all before, and not only in his dreams. He had been there, he had _lived_ it. Not dreams, memories. Aramis' gaze turned towards Athos. Focusing on the man kneeling on his left side, anxiously looking down at him, Aramis' vision started to clear and he remembered EVERYTHING.

_Wielding sword and dagger, frantically stabbing rather than fencing masterfully, Aramis saw Athos die, falling from his horse, hit by a musket ball right through the heart. Their captain was dead even before he hit the ground, a ground already littered with too many dead, dying or wounded. Aramis had neither time nor chance to fight his way through to this friend, his brother, his captain. Hadn't a chance to close the comte's eyes, to say a short prayer or, at least, say good-bye. The battle raged on with brutal force, and all he could do was try to stay alive as long as was given to him. Porthos was at his side, as always. D'Artagnan he couldn't locate anymore, they had lost sight of him an indefinite time earlier, somewhere behind the hill, when Spanish troops had attacked from the side, and the enemy's cannons had ripped swaths of destruction in their ranks. He could only hope the young Gascon would survive this day and be able to go back to his wife some time after this craziness was over. For at the very moment Aramis watched Athos go down, he knew beyond any doubt that this was his dying day, too, that none of the older Inseparables would live long enough to see the sun rise again the next day. For Aramis, it wasn't a disturbing thought, just a fact._

_Next, Porthos was gone. Aramis didn't see him fall, didn't see him being run through or shot, the big man just wasn't at his side anymore in the blink of an eye. Turning on his boots' heels in a swift motion, Aramis quickly searched the area behind him. His leg, bleeding for a considerable time now, started trembling and he had to shift his body's weight. Seeing the next enemy approach, he raised his sword arm; after losing his musket and throwing away his spent pistols earlier, his rapier and dagger were the only weapons he had left. Slashing and hacking at his foes with a last effort of strength, he slew two more of his immediate opponents. Before the last man hit the ground, Aramis was turning, searching for his friend again, all the while keeping an eye on advancing enemies. Suddenly he saw Porthos, struggling to come up from where he lay, bleeding profusely from a wound on his chest. No, not one wound. Two, three. Porthos' doublet and shirt were dark with blood, the stains of red growing steadily. Aramis felt searing pain running down his shoulder where a rapier slit open armor and flesh. Swiveling around, he brought his sword up, ramming it into the ribcage of the young soldier just trying to deal another strike at the marksman. Dagger in his left hand, Aramis blocked the strike with his arm but couldn't avoid the tip of the Spaniard's_ espada _slicing open his breeches, leaving another gap in his skin that quickly filled with blood. Yanking his sword with a sucking sound from the soldier's chest, Aramis simultaneously brought up his left arm, slicing open his enemy's throat in one swift motion, dragging the dagger from left to right. Whirling around, Aramis' eyes returned to Porthos, seeing him fall back and abandoning his effort to come up again, the hand that had clutched the pommel releasing the schiavona, acquitting it of its obligation. Aramis was beside Porthos in a split second, not paying heed to the ongoing battle around him or the corpses he had to step on and over to get to the other man._

_“Porthos,” he whispered, gently touching his friend's brow. Aramis knew it was useless trying to stop the blood flow, not even the best of healers would be able to save this life. He was released from giving false promises, for Porthos knew he was dying. His eyes, searching the marksman's gaze, wordlessly conveyed what needed to be expressed; this was good-bye. It had been a good life for both of them, for all of them, and now it was time to let go. There was no regret, no touch of melancholy, they had always been aware of the likelihood of ending this way._

_The moment stretched, filled with the respect, affection and emotions both men's eyes held just now, and the deep gratitude for having been blessed with knowing each other._

_After Porthos had closed his eyes for good, Aramis whispered a short prayer, regardless of the tears running down his cheeks, mingling with the blood and grime that covered his face. He knew he should get up and fight again, kneeling here made him too easy a target, and despite the hopelessness of the situation, many of his brothers were still fighting and in dire need of any support. Yet, he lacked the strength to rise, lacked the will to wield his sword for king and country one last time, feeling more tired and worn out than he had ever before._

_When something hit the back of his head with sheer force, Aramis knew with crystal clarity in the second's fraction before his vision went black, his heart stopped and his soul left his body, that what had hit him was a killing blow and he would follow his brothers now, leaving him no time to spare another thought on their young Gascon._

Aramis struggled for air, drawing in breath after breath like a drowning man coming out of the water. “I saw you die,” he gasped, “I saw both of you die and couldn't do anything about it.” Aramis looked from one man to the other. Only a few minutes ago both had been nothing more than complete strangers to him, and now he found his brothers at his side, familiar faces he had thought he would never see again.

Athos looked pained upon the revelation of the other man. “Hush, we can talk about that later. You should get up now, the street is not the best place to take a rest. Are you hurting anywhere or feeling nauseated?” Athos asked, reaching out his hand to help the other up.

Aramis grasped the hand offered to him, palpating his head with the other. When he brought it back from the back of his head, blood was smeared on the hand. “Shit,” Aramis mumbled.

“You're bleeding,” Porthos stated the obvious, “we should get you to a doctor.” Looking up and around, he muttered, “If we are able to find one here in this hicksville.”

“I don't need a doctor, I'm a paramedic and can assess any injuries myself, thank you very much,” Aramis replied, once again palpating the back of his head, grimacing when he touched the bump there. “Keep your doctors to yourself.” 

Porthos started laughing, and when he saw the venomous look Aramis graced him with, the laughter only increased in volume, until its booming sound filled the quiet street.

Athos smiled down at Aramis. “Apologies, _mon ami_. It was a stupid suggestion from Porthos. We should have considered the probability of you being some kind of medic in any of your lives.” He rose, pulling Aramis up with him in the motion. When Aramis was on his feet, Athos didn't let go of the former marksman and just pulled him closer, embracing him in a heartfelt hug. “Good to have you back, brother,” he whispered in the other's neck. 

Aramis hugged back fiercely, clinging to Athos as if both their lives depended on it. It felt too much like home, so much like coming home that Aramis was not willing to let go anytime soon, but finally he loosened his grip on the other man and retreated. Athos still held the marksman's shoulders, looking him square in the eye. “I'm glad we found you.”

Porthos had hovered behind the two and the moment Athos let go of Aramis, the big man grabbed Aramis by the shoulder, whirling him around and burying him in a bone-crushing bear hug in one swift, smooth motion.

Aramis had no time to react or bring his arms up, instead he just succumbed to the waves of feelings crashing over him and let himself be swept away by the other's candid emotions. Body turning into a boneless shell, he melted into the big man willingly.

When Porthos finally released Aramis, holding him at arm's length to look him up and down once more, they seemed to pick up their last conversation they had had more than 350 years ago and it was as easy as it had been back then to read in the other's face.

Athos cleared his throat, well aware of the silent conversation going on between the two. “I suggest we seek more comfortable surroundings to catch up on old times and see to Aramis' head.” Looking up and down the street, he addressed Aramis, “Where are you staying?”

“Ah, it's a _petite chambre d'hôtes_ in Pennéac'h,” Aramis rubbed his brow with the back of his hand, “it's, umm, about half an hour walk from here and--”

Athos felt his friend's uneasiness, maybe about the poor lodgings he probably was staying at, and interrupted him. “Ok, since Porthos and I have rooms here,” Athos pointed to the building they had just left a couple of minutes before, “I suggest we go there and see to your head wound. I bet I can even persuade the _propriétaire_ to prepare us a late meal.” Athos eyed the other man, “Have you eaten dinner?”

Aramis looked sheepish, his eyes refusing to meet the other's gaze. “Not really, no,” he muttered, suddenly feeling his stomach's emptiness as a reminder that he had been more than sloppy with his meals recently. To emphasize this insight, his body decided to betray its occupant and Aramis swayed, suddenly feeling dizzy and light-headed.

Porthos grabbed him around the shoulders, the bigger man lowering his head to catch the former marksman's gaze. “Easy,” Porthos grumbled, “time to get you on a bed.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis said, and then again, “ _Porthos_. How can this be?” He looked around, then up to the sky. “This can't be possible. There is no way we are born twice. That's not....,” voice cracking, he trailed off.

“I know this must be a shock to you,” Athos offered, taking a step closer to Aramis, “It certainly was for me, but...”

Looking to Athos, Aramis spoke on, interrupting the older man. “I believed that when I die - and you and I and Porthos _died_ on that battlefield in Rocroi! I _believed_ in the resurrection of the body, life everlasting. This faith saw me through many difficult times. Why am I here then? Was it a lie, everything I ever believed in? What I still believe in?”

“No,” Porthos declared with determination, “it was not. I don't know what happened to you and me after we died. I have no recollection of anything, no resurrection, no purgatory or nothingness. But I know it's _your_ God, Aramis, who granted us this second chance. I don't know if or how we are reborn, or why we came back, or how it could be that we are the very same persons we were back then.” Porthos took a couple of deep breaths. “What I know is that I thank your Lord for this chance. If nothing else, then it's a wonder.”

Athos touched Aramis' arm lightly to gain the other's attention. “I know it's hard to get used to the diverging memories of two lives. But you will learn to cope with it. It's easier than it might seem now. Believe me, even I managed it.” A smile tugged at Athos' lips.

Aramis shook his head, closing his eyes for a second or two, aware of Porthos' strong arm wrapped around his shoulder, silently supporting him. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, exhaling long and audibly. “It's a lot for a weak man at the end of an exhausting week.”

A genuine smile graced Athos' face. “You'll survive. Wasn't it you who always preached about the grand scheme of things, the mysterious ways God moves? It's not up to us to question why we are here again, right? _Nihil fit sine causa._ ”

Aramis looked surprised, eyebrows making their way up to the hairline. “You speak Latin in this life, too?”

Porthos chuckled, imagining Aramis' reaction once he learned that Porthos, too, was versed in Latin these days. “Come,” he said, “let's get you back to the hotel. Sooner or later you'll come to terms with the situation, believe me. If not, that's your problem then. I'm not complaining.”

Weak or not, Aramis still managed to smack Porthos upside the head, letting himself be guided towards the _Quatre Vents_ , nonetheless. Athos, supporting their friend from the other side, tried to hide the pure glee that threatened to erase every line of his so carefully carved mask of indifference.

After they had entered the hotel, Athos turned towards the small reception to have a short conversation with the proprietor. Porthos meanwhile watched Aramis make his way upstairs to the second floor where they had their rooms, hovering behind Aramis as if the other might break down from blood loss any moment. 

“Stop fussing,” Aramis huffed while entering Athos' room, “I definitely have seen graver wounds than this.” He smiled at Porthos and the big man grinned back broadly. Indeed, they all had seen and survived much graver injuries, gunshot wounds, gashes from rapiers and daggers, torture even; a mere bump on the head was nothing at all. Stepping into the small bathroom, Aramis' smile faded. He was still unsure about this new situation and how it could be that he stood here now, talking about injuries he had experienced more than 300 years ago. His fingers twitched, wanting to remove sweater and shirt to see if miraculously his body was littered with scars again. 

It was still a mystery to him why, in the end, he had gone to meet the strangers. He’d spent hours pondering all the things they’d said during their encounter on the cliffs. While his logical mind had refused to consider it, his heart had wondered if it was possible, and if it was, what it would mean to him. Eventually, his mind and faith had won over his heart and he had determinedly refused to believe that reincarnation was possible. It simply couldn’t be. All his life he had believed in the resurrection of the body, once he passed away, and he was neither willing to question his faith, nor venture further into dangerous waters. He dared not think about the possibility of it. But he was grateful now that his feet had found the way of their own accord. 

“I don't, but I'm sure Athos has some kind of first aid kit with him. If not, I'll go down to the car,” Porthos hollered in the direction of the bathroom, interrupting Aramis' stream of thought.

Staring into the mirror, Aramis started dabbing off the blood that stuck to his hair, grimacing every so often when he touched the bump.

“So,” Porthos continued the conversation, meanwhile turning down the big bed's coverlet and duvet and fluffing up the pillows, “where are you from? Do you live here or are you on vacation? Athos said he saw you at the train station with a backpack.” 

Aramis appeared in the open bathroom door, pressing a cold, wet washcloth to the back of his head, just as Athos stepped into the room. “I live in Paris and only came here for a short, uhm, you know, mini-break. Kind of. And you two? Where do you live?”

Porthos grinned broadly. “Paris.”

Athos slumped on a chair since Porthos was already occupying the bed. “What a lucky coincidence,” he said, smiling lightly, then adding, “Monsieur Voisin will see that a late dinner will be brought up shortly. Do you need a first aid kit?”

Aramis shook his head. “No, I think it's stopped bleeding, but maybe one of you could take a look to see if it needs stitches.” He flashed them a smile. “Not that I would let any of you anywhere near me with needle and thread. In this case I would rather bleed to death.”

Athos eyed Aramis meaningfully for a moment, rising from his seat to take a look. Everyone in the room knew Aramis would still let either of them sew up his wounds, albeit grudgingly. Athos carefully palpated the back of Aramis’ head. It didn't look life-threatening and he said so. “You'll survive it, no need for needlework.” 

“A headache pill wouldn't go amiss, though, if you have one,” Aramis responded, letting himself fall down beside Porthos, and only at the very last moment refrained himself from stretching out on the bed. Instead he propped his upper body on his elbows so he wouldn't smear the pillow with whatever might still be oozing out of the wound.

Athos stepped into the bathroom, coming back with a small towel he tossed to Aramis. “Here. For heaven's sake, put that on the pillow and lie down. You're already white as a sheet.”

Aramis opened his mouth to protest, but Porthos just grabbed the towel, spreading it on the pillow. “There,” he said, pressing Aramis' upper body down with determination.

Aramis couldn't suppress a slight sigh as he rested his head on the pillow, grinning at Porthos. He was worn out and the headache certainly didn't help. He kicked off his shoes and properly stretched on the bed, making himself more comfortable. 

Athos rummaged some more in the bathroom before he came out, holding a blister pack in his hand. “Here, but you might want to eat something first before swallowing one of these on an empty stomach.” 

Porthos turned and kicked off his boots before sliding up to lean against the headboard next to Aramis and stretch out his legs again.

That earned him a raised eyebrow from Athos. “I'm glad you're making yourself comfortable in _my_ bed, just be reminded that it'll be _me_ who will be sleeping there tonight.” Having said that, he knew he would likely _not_ sleep in that bed tonight, neither man looking like they had any intention of leaving it anytime soon, but it was worth a try. 

Porthos grunted something unintelligible, but Aramis bothered himself with replying. “Of course, _mon ami_ , just let me lie here for a moment until my headache recedes. I have my own bed to sleep in, don't worry.”

But worry they did. Porthos and Athos shared a quick glance. Both had heard the tiredness and strain in the other's voice. Time to probe a little.

“So, you're from Paris. Shame our paths never crossed before. What an incredibly lucky coincidence that I saw you standing at the station in Quimper. Not to mention our luck in finally meeting you on the cliffs today. My ears had already started to bleed from Porthos' grumbling about how many more coastal paths I was intending to drag him along.” Athos spoke lightly, the seriousness in his voice almost too faint to be heard. 

“Hey,” Porthos interrupted, “I didn't complain about the walking there, solely about your lack of a proper goal. Your,“ Porthos raised his hands to sign quotation marks in the air, “'never mind, sooner or later we'll stumble across him' was somehow a little dim in the light of those bazillion paths and tracks zig-zagging the peninsula.” 

“Stop lamenting. We found him, didn't we? Anyway, what I meant to say,” Athos addressed Aramis again, “any special reason for that mini-break?” Athos and Aramis looked to each other, their gazes holding for a moment. “You looked a little depressed to me the way you stood there at the train station. Anything you want to share?” Though brought forward in a light voice, the worry shone through now. 

Aramis sighed. Yes, he would be glad to talk about his current situation, though he felt a lot of the depression and despondency falling away from him. He wasn't alone anymore, would never be again. He had regained friends, _brothers_ , dearer to him than anything else in life. “It has to do with a woman,” Aramis said, scratching his beard stubble. 

Before Aramis was able to continue or one of the others could make a remark about the centuries-old tale of Aramis and his passion for women, a knock on the door announced the proprietor, bringing something to eat and drink.

Athos relieved the man of the tray and put it on the table, immediately grabbing the bottle of wine to fill the glasses. His gaze shifted to Aramis. It was no secret that other than himself, neither of the other two had ever been able to armor their hearts. “Do you want to eat at the table or on the bed? Though I must warn you, I'm allergic to crumbs on my linens.” 

Aramis sighed again, rolling his eyes for emphasis, and heaved himself up. “Has anyone ever told you that you still have an aristocratic demeanor?” Two seconds later his eyes opened wide. “Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to insult you. You're not, I mean, a _comte_ or anything in this life?” Aramis turned to Porthos, seeking help.

Porthos grinned, showing his teeth. “Nah, don't worry, no aristocracy in this era, though the family wealth is in no way inferior to that of a _comte_.”

The tension drained out of Aramis and he shuffled over to the table. Athos had seated himself on one of the chairs again, already sipping his red wine. Aramis sat down on the second chair, reaching for the plate upon which the cook had arranged an appetizing left-over dish from the dinner's main course. Chewing, he picked up the conversation again. “My girlfriend split up with me a couple of days ago. Kicked me out and trampled a little on my heart to make sure I got her point. And sometimes I'm bad with handling being alone. I just wanted to get away from Paris for a few days and hopped on the first train that left the station.” He gulped before he continued. “Brittany had the right weather to wallow in misery and wail for a while, but finally it started taking a lot out of me. Good you two came along when you did.” 

Porthos came over from the bed to grab one of the filled glasses, sitting down on the bed's edge again. “I couldn't believe it when Athos returned from his business trip and reported he had seen you.” He quickly looked to Athos, then back to the wine glass in his hand. “We've searched for years, Athos even longer than I. I was afraid we wouldn't find you here, or we would and you wouldn't remember.” His gaze brushed over Aramis' face before settling somewhere above the table. “Well, it nearly happened, but....” He sipped from his wine. “Seems it's still not possible to shake us off so easily.” Porthos grinned and the others could see the lines of worry smoothing out of the big man's face. He raised a glass to toast, "All for one." 

Athos raised his glass as well, nodding to his friends.

Aramis grabbed a tumbler of water and clinked glasses with Athos and Porthos. “And one for all.”

Athos swallowed the ruby liquid, savoring the taste that lingered in his mouth afterwards, and turned to Aramis again. “So, what is this with Savoy? You obviously aren't referring to the training exercise in 1625.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nihil fit sine causa_ = nothing happens without a cause
> 
> _petite chambre d'hôtes_ = a small (cheap) room in a bed&breakfast
> 
> _propriétaire_ = proprietor
> 
> _espada_ = Spanish for sword


	4. Lost And Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos realized, he had seen the same pained look before; when the Musketeer Aramis had talked about the slaughter of his fellow soldiers. That training exercise had left him with the ghosts of his dead brothers and the guilt of being the sole survivor. Why, in the Lord's name, had Aramis had to lose friends in Savoy again?

CHAPTER 4  
~Lost And Found~

Face growing serious, Aramis laid down fork and knife, fully facing the older man. “No. No I didn't, though now I think I really must be cursed to always lose friends in Savoy.” Aramis grabbed the blister pack and pressed two pills out, swallowing them with a mouthful of water before he began his story. Fumbling with the napkin on the table, he started in a soft voice.

“We had been to a hiking trip in the Pyrenees, my friends, our girls, me, followed by a long weekend in Barcelona. We had done this four or five times since we left school. It became harder and harder to organize such a trip, especially after everyone began working. We hardly had time to meet together at all. Yanis moved away, and Suhaib often was away on business trips. Other than the occasional beer or birthday party we didn't see each other much. A trip was always fun and we could catch up on old times. This time, we had taken our girlfriends, even Suhaib, who was always... never mind. Three of us were in long-running relationships, one was already married, so most of the girls were casual friends, too. After the hiking we drove down to Barcelona on Thursday evening, we had planned to stay over the weekend and catch a flight back to Paris on Sunday afternoon.” Aramis paused, painting patterns on the tablecloth with his fingers. 

The others waited, and just when they thought Aramis wouldn't continue with the story, his voice, half an octave lower than before, broke the silence.

“Chloé had insisted we fly back on Saturday morning, so we could be back for her grandparent's diamond wedding anniversary on Saturday evening in Montreuil. I had a couple of heated discussions with her, but finally gave in. One day with my friends in Barcelona would have to be sufficient. We flew back Saturday morning and joined the celebrations in the evening. When I watched the late night news on Sunday, I didn't connect the plane crash in Savoy with the return flight of my friends, not even when they said the plane had come from Barcelona. Only when a colleague, Yvonne, texted me and asked if I was okay, did it occurred to me that it was our flight. Their flight. The flight we had booked, and Chloé and I had canceled to fly back home a day prior. They were all dead...” Aramis trailed off and looked up.

Athos realized, he had seen the same pained look before; when the Musketeer Aramis had talked about the slaughter of his fellow soldiers. That training exercise had left him with the ghosts of his dead brothers and the guilt of being the sole survivor. Why, in the Lord's name, had Aramis had to lose friends in Savoy again? Lose friends at all? Was this the price they had to pay for being reborn? To relive the same experiences and mistakes? To live through the same nightmares they had experienced before? 

Athos had been too lost in thought to realize that Aramis was talking again, in a voice so soft Athos was sure the marksman had used it in former times only to recite poems to his mistresses or coo to his son in the rare moments they had been able to share.

“I'm a member of the Crisis Management and Civil Protection, which was called in directly after the severity of the crash site became obvious. Volunteering immediately to go with the first group was, in hindsight, a mistake.” Aramis looked up from his fingers still painting patterns on the tablecloth. “I only realized it when it was already too late; when I arrived. I thought it was my duty, a duty I owed my friends and their families. A last act of..., well, -- at least something to do.” Aramis stared into the distance. “I'll never forget the sight of the vast destruction, everything smashed to small pieces, the impossible task trying to recover..... what was left,” he whispered, clearing his throat before he continued. “I still dream of it sometimes, but it's getting better.” A light smile played around his lips when he looked at Porthos. “One could really think it is a cruel God above. No matter which century I live in, Savoy seems to be my curse.” 

Porthos stretched to reach his friend and grabbed Aramis' shoulder, squeezing it assuringly. “Yes, and no matter which century you live in, you only come out of it stronger than before and you have brothers at your side to see you through any hardships of life.”

“Whoever is responsible for this,” Athos made a vague gesture to show that he referred to this whole being-reborn-thingy, “whatever we have to relive, all the bad things and circumstances we find ourselves in, don't matter. We are together again and have friends we can rely on, no matter what. That's all that counts.” 

“Amen,” Aramis added and grabbed the bottle of wine, filling a glass. Raising the glass he pointedly overlooked Athos' stare. The older man seemed to be disapproving of Aramis' decision to mingle wine with pain relievers; given the former _comte's_ annals in that regard, Aramis couldn't care less. “Cheers,” he said, “I'll drink to that.”

“ _À la vôtre, mes amis”_ Athos replied, emptying his glass in one go afterwards.

“ _À nous, à cette vie!”_ Porthos added and re-positioned against the headboard, making himself comfortable again.

“And d'Artagnan? Where is he?” Aramis asked, looking from one friend to the other.

Porthos glanced to Athos. The older man just shrugged one shoulder, circling the edge of his wine glass with his forefinger. “We don't know. You and Porthos are the only ones I've found so far. Well, and Anne, but she doesn't remember.” Looking up to Aramis, Athos hurriedly continued before the other could make an incorrect assumption, thinking Athos was speaking of Queen Anne, “My wife, 'Milady de Winter', though nowadays she calls herself simply Anne Breuil. Formerly d'Auteveille,” he added with a cough, hoping Aramis wouldn't understand the last two words properly. His hope went unanswered. 

Aramis gasped. “Wait, what? Didn't you say d'Auteveille is your last name? Olivier d'Auteveille? Do you mean--- Oh!” Mouth hanging open, still forming the shape of an O, Aramis looked over to Porthos for a sign of confirmation or negation. The other didn't have to say a word, though, Aramis could very well read everything he needed to know form his friend's face. “You married her? _Again?”_ Aramis couldn't restrain himself from asking.

Athos took a deep breath. “Yes, I did. Though, in my defense, I'll have you know I didn't realize until after we were divorced. I certainly wouldn't have married her had I known before.” His stare unmistakably conveyed the message that Aramis had entered a minefield and better not venture further. To make sure, however, he added in conclusion, “And she didn't murder anyone dear to me this time, if that is your next question. We simply divorced.” 

“I'm sorry,” Aramis offered sincerely, making his way over to the bed to stretch out beside Porthos. Once he lay comfortably, head propped up on his arms behind his head, careful of the wound, he wanted to know more. “So, Anne doesn't remember who she was, who you are? And I guess you didn't press that point once you realized who you are?”

Athos snorted, and Porthos answered in his stead. “Yes. And no, she doesn't know, and none of us is inclined to tell her anytime soon. If she finds out for herself, well, we won't be able to do anything about that, but I'd be happy as hell if she never remembers.” He took another gulp from his wine. “The problem is, we don't go by the same names, at least not all, they are somewhat different. So if we google d'Artagnan, we get a thousand hits, but none of them is our pup. We googled you, René d'Herblay, and got countless hits, and we checked a lot, but never found you. We might not even have found you if we had googled René-Henri, what? Espaloungue? We could have gotten another thousand hits and none of them the right one. Or no hits at all. Seems like anyone who is not into social media these days doesn't exist, at least if you want to get information outside an official investigation. Not that we haven't tried, we have the skills and resources in that regard, but still, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“It doesn't mean we are not continuing our searching, but it's difficult.”

“Yeah, and there are damn sure a couple of faces I'll be glad if I never have to see again in my life. Richelieu, Rochefort, Marcheaux, to mention some. No, thank you.”

Athos nodded his agreement, thinking of all the people he could live without for the rest of any lives he was given again.

“Dear God, yes! If I ever had to see Richelieu again, I'm not sure what I would do to him,” Aramis confirmed. “So, how did you two meet? How long have you known each other? Errm, in this life I mean.” 

Athos filled his glass again, stretching his legs out in front of him and slumping down in the chair so he could rest his head on the wall behind. “We met by pure chance, and Porthos had no clue who I was or who he had been.“ Athos glanced over to the big man. “Luck, or fate. I don't know which, but like back in the days, for me it was the right time again. I had just been divorced and moved to a small apartment on rue Réaumur. One day I opened the fridge, hungry as a wolf, and realized that it was, well, utterly empty, so I shouldered the task of going shopping.” He smirked, looking to Aramis. “Alas, it was handy to have maids and servants doing such things. Taking care of feeding their masters and stuff like that, but when I moved out I decided I didn't need anyone to take care of me or my apartment anymore.”

“Well, except for the cleaning lady who also takes care for his wardrobe. And does the shopping. And his father's chauffeur, of course, who tends to his car as well as the car park his father calls his own,” Porthos interrupted. “And yes, I'm talking of his current life, not his _comte_ -ly life back then, though there's not much difference.” Barking a laugh, Porthos got up to get a refill for his glass before settling down beside Aramis again, ignoring the pointedly raised-eyebrow stare he received from Athos. 

“Anyway, I was not in the best of moods and busy with keeping all the bags and groceries balanced in my arms when I bumped into a wall. Only, it wasn't a wall, it was Porthos. Porthos started apologizing and picking up my things even before I knew what had hit me. And then it hit me again, proverbially. Porthos shuffled, holding out an artichoke to me, rambling words of no relevance, at least to me, and obviously unaware of the fact that I was plainly staring at him.”

Porthos laughed out loud. “No, not really unaware. I saw you staring, believe me. Though I had absolutely no idea if you were terrified of me or the artichoke I was sticking towards you.”

Both men remembered that fateful day, recalling the way they had met.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Porthos!” was all Athos was able to voice, staring at the big man and ignoring the artichoke the other was holding out to him.

The other man shook his head. “No, the name's Isaac. Isaac Porthaut and I'm really sorry, I just didn't see you.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought--, I took you for somebody else.”

“No problem, and I'm really sorry for this mess. Look, I'll pay for the eggs, I think they are beyond remedy.”

“No,” Athos hurried to say, “it was my fault. I was..., I wasn't paying attention. I would like to apologize, could I invite you to have a drink? A coffee?” Athos was desperately trying to not let Porthos walk away, and maybe his desperation could be heard in his voice. He hoped not. 

Isaac shook his head. “Well, it should be me apologizing and offering you recompense, but if you want to join me, I'm just on my way to lunch. I wouldn't mind some company.”

Athos deflated with relief. “Well, then, I'd be glad to invite you to lunch. Lead the way.” Athos trailed behind Porthos, still trying to balance his groceries and tempted to throw them into the next bin. However, somehow, he thought, this wouldn't make the best impression on Porthos and so he endured.

They enjoyed each other's company through lunch, and so Athos' new acquaintance wasn't suspicious when a couple of days later he stumbled over Athos again just outside the office Issac worked in, and they ate lunch together again. From then on they met more often, for a beer in the evening or a quick lunch.

Athos had even gone so far as to give his address and phone number to his unaware friend one day, 'just in case', as he added when handing over his business card. But this didn't stop Athos from being surprised when one evening his door bell rang, just as he had stepped out of the shower. Quickly wrapping a towel around his hips and leaving water puddles on the floor, he clicked on the intercom. Seeing it was Isaac standing at the door, he pressed the open button, wrapping the towel more tightly around his waist.

“Athos,” Porthos breathed heavily, once the door had opened, “I remember you.” After a moment's hesitation, he stepped forward and hugged Athos so fiercely that the older man almost lost his balance. He hugged Porthos back, letting his emotions run freely if only for a short moment, and then let go, gesturing him to step inside. Athos closed the door and turned to face Porthos. “How? How did your memory come back? When?” 

Porthos stared at Athos for a moment, then the big man growled at his friend, brows furrowed, “Do you mean to say you knew all the time? You knew I'm Porthos and not Isaac and didn't tell me?”

“What did you expect me to do? Introduce myself to you: ' _Sorry, we haven't met before but I'm Athos, your captain by the way, more precisely former captain of the 1630s Musketeer Regiment, the king's personal bodyguards. Welcome back?_ ' - I suspect you would have hit me square in the face, right?”

Porthos grinned, one of his big, endearing smiles. “Yeah, I probably would have. But you never gave any hint. Hell, if you knew, you could have dropped one thing or other, given me some clue.”

“I did drop hints, believe me, but either they were so subtle that they didn't trigger anything or you are just as thick as a brick. So, how comes you remember now? And,” Athos added, pointedly staring at Porthos' side where specks of blood tainted the shirt, “hate to say so, but you're apparently bleeding.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Porthos put a hand to his side, only now aware that it hurt. “That's the reason I remember, I guess. I was stabbed and fainted, and suddenly all those pictures and images whirled through my mind. Pictures of you. _Comte de la Fère_. And Aramis. Are there more of us? Did you find more? Aramis? D'Artagnan?”

“No, not yet. You are the first. But I'm determined, now that I know that I'm not the only one, to find the others as well.” Athos jammed his shoulder under Porthos' arm pit to stabilize the other man who had started swaying, supporting him on their way to the living room. “But first we'll see to your wound. You are lucky that I still call a full equipped army first aid kit my own.” Athos looked up and grinned at the bigger man, noticing the slight layer of sweat on Porthos' face. “Including some shots of morphine. Here, take a seat.”

“Yeah, and put something on while you're at it,” Porthos smirked, “ lest I don't get any ideas!” Porthos' roaring laughter followed Athos into the bathroom.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What had happened to you? The bleeding, I mean,” Aramis asked when it looked like neither of them was willing to share more of that incident.

“Oh, well, I happened to walk into a little quarrel, some kids harassing a couple of girls.” Porthos grinned. “They hadn't of course reckoned with me. In no time at all two boys lay on the ground, groaning and moaning, the third taking flight. One of the girls called the police and I heard her say something about a stab wound. Just then I realized I had been stabbed in the side and it hurt. I swayed and had to sit down for a moment, feeling funny and light-headed, maybe even fainted for a minute or two. Suddenly the sounds around me were muted, as if I was under water, my vision filling with images, changing in such a fast sequence it made my head spin. I saw battle scenes, fights, quarrels with the Red Guard, palace duty, brothers-in-arms. That's when I remembered my name was Porthos and that the man I had met and who called himself Olivier d'Auteveille was Athos. As soon as my world stopped spinning, I rose and left before the police arrived, running all the way to Athos' apartment.” 

“And I had the dubious pleasure of sewing him up, just like old times, only then it was you who usually did that job.” Athos raised his glass and pointed towards Aramis. 

Their former marksman, however, had his eyes closed and he looked so content and at ease that Athos was grateful for the evening's turn of events. Even on the cliffs Aramis had looked to be in dire need of a good rest and someone to look after him a little.

“Mmmh,” Aramis hummed, “and I bet my needlework is still miles better even if I had to do it blindfolded. My colleagues are jealous, even the female ones.” He grinned, keeping his eyes closed. “Gosh, you have no idea how impressive a man can be if he can handle needle and thread and produce fine embroidery.” Aramis huffed a laugh that turned into a yawn. 

Athos wanted to ask where it was Aramis was working as a paramedic, but seeing he was on the verge of falling asleep, Athos let it drop. He wouldn't deny the marksman a good night's rest. “I spoke with the landlord. He says there's a storm front coming and they will likely close the coastal pathways to prevent obstinate people from being swept into the Atlantic. I'd rather drive back tomorrow to get ahead of the bad weather. What do you think?” Athos asked Porthos and added, quieter than before, “I also told him Aramis will be staying here for the night, no extra charge for it.” 

“No wonder,” Porthos muttered, “we already paid for a whole regiment. The prices are exorbitant.” Not that Porthos minded staying in such fine and luxurious lodgings, as long as Athos paid for it he wouldn't complain. “As regards driving back: If it was up to me, we could pack our bags now and leave. As nice as Brittany is, I miss Paris. Too much nature here for my liking.”

Athos smiled at the bigger man. Despite the grumbling, he knew Porthos enjoyed being away from Paris for a while, though he hadn't been able to truly enjoy the trip out of fear they might not find Aramis. Athos eyed their marksman for a moment, then his gaze shifted back to the big man. He signaled Porthos with a nod, indicating Aramis' condition. The latter still had his eyes closed, though they'd been closed for the last half hour as he'd listened to Athos and Porthos talking. Now it looked as if their friend had fallen asleep. 

“Aramis?” Porthos asked quietly, turning his gaze on Athos again when no reaction came from the man on the other side of the bed.

The older man smiled slightly, shrugging off his shoes and placing his feet on the chair Aramis had vacated earlier in the evening. “I've slept in worse places than this, I'm fine here. Besides, he has always slept much better with you beside him rather than me.” It had more to do with Athos' aversion to Aramis' habit of sometimes clinging to whoever shared a bedroll with him while deeply asleep than anything else, but he was not willing to disclose this knowledge to Porthos. The bigger man never had had a problem with sharing his bedroll or bed with one of his brothers.

Porthos doffed his sweater and rolled to the side, dragging the bedsheet from the foot of the bed up, draping it over Aramis and himself. “You know, one of us could use the bed in my room. It's already paid for generously.” He snuggled deeper into the pillow, his back to Aramis and eyes already closed. 

“I know.” Athos looked fondly at both men in the bed. It was a sight he had been used to while serving in the king's regiment, and it was a sight dear to him. He was glad he had been given this chance to share his life with them again. Now, there was only one more person missing, then his life would be near perfect. He silently walked over to the small cupboard, taking out two of the extra blankets. He spread out one of them over Porthos, who had made sure that the better part of the bedsheet was covering Aramis. The second blanket Athos wrapped around himself, taking his seat in the chair again after he had turned off the lights. He fidgeted on the chair, trying to find a position that would be comfortable enough to grant him some sleep. Dammit, he needed to purchase a hat, something similar to the one he had had back then. It was so much easier to find sleep with a hat drawn deep down over the face, shading the eyes...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm certain no airline operates a flight connection between Barcelona and Paris using a flight route via the Savoy Alps. Savoy lies too far east for it, but let's pretend there are some, or there was a storm brewing and the airplane had to re-route via Savoy or they had planned a short stop in Geneva. I don't mind, it's fan fiction and therefore MY travel route went via the Savoy Alps. :-)


	5. Time to go home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Which is?” Aramis asked curiously. He wanted to learn as much of his friends' backgrounds as they were willing to share. Despite how very close they had been back in the 1600s, none of them had spoken much of their lives prior to the Musketeer regiment, especially not Athos.

CHAPTER 5

~Time to go home~

Coming around, Athos realized that he was either growing old or growing soft. In any way, spending a night in a chair wasn't as acceptable anymore as it used to be. Sitting up, he stretched his muscles, hearing his joints creak. He looked over to the bed. Unsurprisingly, Aramis lay pressed to Porthos' back, his head buried between the bigger man's shoulder blades, the left arm clutching the other's broad chest. How Aramis was able to breathe in that position was a mystery to Athos, though it was not the first time he'd found the marksman lying in bed like this. Luckily, Athos had mostly been able to avoid being on the receiving end of Aramis' sleep-deprived adhesion.

He rose and went to the bathroom to relieve himself, debating whether or not he should take a shower, but decided against it so he would not wake the others with the running water. Studying his reflection in the mirror he realized that he could use Porthos' bathroom instead, they had paid for two rooms, after all. When he stepped out of the bathroom, glancing over to the bed again, he found a pair of eyes staring at him. “Morning,” he greeted Aramis.

Aramis raked his fingers through his tousled hair, looking a tad embarrassed. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. Did you sleep in Porthos' room?”

Athos hesitated for a moment before he replied. “No, but I was given the option. I just wanted to go over and take a shower.” He spared a quick glance to the sleeping form of Porthos. “If you want, you can use the shower here, it's time for Porthos to wake up anyway.”

Aramis flashed him a smile. “Thanks. What are your plans for today?”

“Let's discuss it later when Porthos is awake. We intend to head back to Paris.”

“Porthos is awake, thanks to your not so hushed conversation,” Porthos grumbled. “For haven's sake, go take your showers and let a man sleep.”

Aramis untangled himself from the sheets and disappeared into the bathroom while Athos fished for the room keys in Porthos' jacket, letting himself out as silently as possible afterwards.

A good while later all three men sat at the breakfast table and made plans for the day.

“If you want to drive back with us, we'd be more than happy. We've already paid for one more night, but with you being retrieved and the storm front coming, I really would like to drive back today. Certainly Charlène will be happy if we are back earlier than expected.”

Porthos barked a laugh. “I'm not sure about that, she is more than capable of handling everything on her own, even if you don't want to hear that. But it would be good if we could start with the Lefevre case today, at least have a first look at the file.”

Aramis looked from Porthos to Athos. “I have still two days off, my schedule starts on Tuesday morning again, but, frankly, there's nothing to keep me here anymore. I'd be glad to drive back with you.” He shook his head, disbelievingly. “I still can't believe that we are together again. That's just...” He trailed off, not finding the words to express what he felt.

However, as always, the others knew exactly what he meant, and nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, I know,” Porthos supplied.

Packing their bags was a quick matter and in no time at all they were on their way to Aramis' lodgings, so he could pack and pay for his stay as well. The wind had picked up speed, chasing dark clouds over the sky. The rain had not yet started pouring down, but it wouldn't be long. Athos studied the western sky where the storm front was nearing the coast. He would be glad once they had left the tiny roads that stretched over the peninsula and finally reached the _autoroute_ to Paris.

Aramis left the small bed & breakfast and threw his backpack into the car's trunk, following Athos' gaze out towards the ocean. “Won't be long I guess until the storm hits the coast. But it's a natural spectacle worth beholding. Imagine how the waves must crash against the lighthouses.”

Athos thought he heard some kind of longing in the other's voice, but couldn't quite grasp what it was and didn't press the point. He glanced sideways to the man beside him for a second or two, before announcing, “Let's get started, I want to be back in Paris in the afternoon.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos drove, concentrating on the road so as to be able to avoid branches or other things the wind might blow onto the road. Porthos fumbled with the radio, once again cursing at Athos' neglect of equipping his car with a collection of decent CDs. The only ones Porthos found in the compartment were several disks with musical pieces from Camille Saint-Saëns as well as Mozart's _Così fan tutte_ and _Zauberflöte_. How Athos was able to stand that howling Porthos had no idea. But then, he was sure Athos had enjoyed a much more classical education than Porthos had. None of his friends had ever imagined playing the _Zauberflöte_ on a ghetto blaster.

Aramis had made himself comfortable on the back seat, watching the landscape fly by and entertaining his friends with stories of his love life. Or the lack of it as of recently. When he thought he had shared enough information about all his ex-girlfriends, he asked, “So, tell me, what is this branch of business you are working in and how comes you two work together? What do you do for a living?” Porthos turned in his seat so he could face both Athos in the front and Aramis, who leaned against the window behind the driver's seat.

“It's called LaFère Security, and we do everything from consulting in regard to security vulnerability for private homes and firms, to observation and personal security. Athos founded the firm after he had retired from the army and after we met I soon discovered that it was something I would be suited for better than the dull bank job I had been doing.” 

Aramis raised a brow. “You were a banker?” The disbelief was audible in every single word.

Porthos grinned. “You bet! Well, more a legal adviser and it was the most dull job I ever imagined. If I hadn't met Athos and he hadn't offered me a job with his firm, I might have died from boredom. Do you remember parade duty? No comparison to that.” 

“He’s right. When I first met him he dragged his feet as if he was Atlas, condemned to hold up the sky for eternity. He looked so wrong in his suit and that job, I felt for him even before I learned of his background,” Athos interposed with a smirk in his voice. 

“Which is?” Aramis asked curiously. He wanted to learn as much of his friends' backgrounds as they were willing to share. Despite how very close they had been back in the 1600s, none of them had spoken much of their lives prior to the Musketeer regiment, especially not Athos. There had never been the need to do so and back then, it hadn't been important where they had come from. What counted most was what each of them had made of it, and the loyalty and honor they held. Now, Aramis was more than eager to learn more.

“Well, we both have some kind of military background which comes in handy for this job,” Athos started, “though while I served with the army, one round in Afghanistan and one in Kosovo, Porthos' military background narrows down on being brought up in one of the numerous multi-cultural _banlieues_ of Paris.” Athos didn't use the word _ghetto de banlieue,_ but Aramis understood him nonetheless. Back then it was the Court of Miracles, nowadays it were _cités_ like Clichy-sous-Bois.

“There you learn every kind of fighting you need for survival,” Porthos picked up from where Athos had stopped, knowing the older men would leave it to him whether and how much he was willing to share of his background. While Athos knew some of it, Porthos was sure he would never tell without Porthos' consent. “By nine I was already orphaned and living with my aunt and five of her own children, and had joined one of the most feared gangs there. I gained a reputation throughout my teenage years. Then I met a teacher who saw more in me than the criminal I was back then.” Porthos paused for a moment, his brow furrowing in remembrance of that time. “In simple words and spare gestures he showed me that there could be another way for me in life. That a boy with my talent and good heart, his words, not mine, could leave behind the world he was born into. I was already pondering what I wanted to do with my life, subtly started retreating from the gang I had called family until then. So, those words fell on fertile soil. My auntie wept with joy the day I came home with a scholarship my teacher had applied for without telling me.” Porthos shrugged his shoulder. “Leaving my former life behind was not easy, the gang not forgiving, the neighborhood cruel and full of envy.... But I was big and strong and still could frighten the hell out of any fella any given time. After I had finished law school I got that nice job in a small bank, boring and dull, but well paid. Don't get me wrong, I was glad for the chance given to me in life, but....you know.” He grinned. “I still like to have some action, there's nothing like a good brawl now and then.”

Aramis reached forward and grabbed Porthos' shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. “Seems we all follow paths in our lives similar to those before.” Porthos deserved every luck and happiness in life Aramis could think of, and bitterness rose in the young man hearing Porthos had had such an upbringing again. “It's still unfair, though.” 

“It made me big and strong, and it wasn't all bad. 's okay.”

“But what qualifies a banker for a bodyguard job?” Aramis teased, well aware that the mere stature of Porthos was enough qualification for any personal security service.

“Aramis, please,” Athos mocked, eyeing the backseat passenger in the rearview mirror. “Porthos went to law school. He can recite every paragraph he is violating while doing so. You have no idea how handy it is to have someone who can tell you where the exact point is your action starts turning illegal. With him, we can do much more harm – or achieve more success, depends which side you are on – without being sued for it.” Athos once again looked at Aramis via the rearview mirror. “And he still wields dagger and fists like no one else.”

Aramis beamed at Athos, a brilliant idea forming in his head. “You don't happen to need another helpful hand in your firm? Seems like you two have a lot of fun, and I bet you are more often than not in need of someone who can patch you up after a rough job. I would just be your man!” Aramis slid forward so he could bring his head between the front seats' backrests. “What do you say? I'm a trained paramedic, I can handle anything you can imagine. Gunshot wounds, no problem. Stab wounds by dagger or switchblade,” Aramis twirled his non-existent whiskers like he was wont to do in the old times, “a specialty of mine.” He turned his head from left to right and back, waiting expectantly for an answer. “Come on,” he whined, “I even have a gun license, I was a champion marksman five years in a row and once, Juniors French pistol champion! I can be useful!”

Athos darted a glance towards Porthos. “I don't know, we are not wounded that often on the job, no serious injuries anyway. And to be honest, I was hardly able to put Porthos on the payroll, it's a hell of a job to collect money from the customers at all.”

When Porthos saw the eager expression on Aramis' face fall, hope seeping out of every fiber, he shrugged him a 'sorry', but couldn't suppress his mirth anymore, laughing softly.

Aramis turned and stared at the dark-skinned man, unsure if he had misjudged his friends from the past, wondering if Porthos could really be so cruel as to laugh at him. He wondered if he had been so desperate in his solitude and the resulting joy to have these two back, that he had overlooked something.

“Aramis.” Athos deep voice cut through the laughing.

Aramis turned his gaze to catch the older man's eyes in the rearview mirror. They held nothing but warmth and attachment, and the display of genuine friendship he saw shining in the blue orbs calmed him. No, he had not misjudged them.

“Aramis, I have enough money to pay for all of us and no one would ever have to lift a finger in his life again. But that's not the point. There’s no question you will be joining our firm. You don't have a choice here. Right, Porthos?” 

Porthos had problems pressing the words through his fits of laughing. “No, never. Athos has connections. You would've been fired from your old job in no time, leaving you with the only option to apply for a job with us.” He swiped tears from his eyes, regaining some self-control again. Then he turned a little more in his seat to fully face Aramis. “You didn't believe for one second we would have to think about this, did you?” Now it was Porthos' turn to be unsure if Aramis had really entertained the thought that they wouldn't want him. At their firm, in their narrow circle of friends, in their lives. His expression turned even more serious. “You did?”

Aramis smiled at him and shrugged his shoulder.

Porthos rolled his eyes.

“Gentlemen,” Athos announced, “I need to pee and a cup of coffee. In that order. Watch out for a roadhouse.”

Aramis slid back into his seat, resting his head on the backrest. “What about you, Athos. You said you were in the army? Why did you quit?”

Aramis was met with silence, and he thought that Athos would not answer, secretive as he had always been, more than obsessive with his past. Aramis regretted asking, after all, they had a whole life ahead of them, someday or other there would be the opportunity to ask or find out some more. Maybe today was not the right time, or his place to ask.

“I was shot on my last round in Afghanistan. Though that's not the reason I quit, being shot I mean. When I woke up in the field hospital, still muddled from the morphine, I thought I was in a tent in Rocroi, wondering what had happened to you all and if the battle was over. When the nurse came to see to me, I asked her if any of you had been brought to the tents of the wounded, too, or if she knew anything of your whereabouts. She answered, a little reserved, 'Sorry, Captain, I don't know. I didn't see those names on the list, but I'll ask.' When I asked if the Spanish had prevailed and if the king was save, she stared at me as if I had grown a second head, then looked at the infusion that was attached to my arm, then to me again. 'I'll get the doctor,' she muttered and was off. When I noticed the infusion dangling beside me I remembered that I was not in Rocroi, but somewhere in the Golbahar plain north of Mahmud-i-Raqi. But at the same time I also knew that I was Athos, Captain of the King's Musketeers, former _Comte de la Fère,_ and that I had fought side by side with you against the Spanish. It was a shock and it took me awhile to come to terms with the fact that I was not crazy but obviously had lived a life before. After I was transferred home and released from hospital I decided to quit the army and try my luck at private enterprise.” Athos hesitated for the tiniest of moments. “And that I had to try and find you all.”

“You were in the rank of a captain?” Aramis asked. It might not be the most pressing question after what Athos had just revealed, but for Aramis it was. The parallels were adding by the minute.

If Athos wondered about the question, he didn't let it show. “Yes, and if my father had had any say in this, I would have climbed up that ladder to the rank of no less than a general. He was unlucky with my decision, generations of d'Auteveilles had served in the French army, and with my, I quote my father, 'natural talent for leadership and God-given perfection in hand-to-hand combat' it was a sacrilege to quit the service, but in the end he accepted my decision. Albeit grudgingly.”

“There,” Porthos cried out, “coffee and loo!” He pointed to a road sign and put an end to Athos' tales of his military life. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

With steaming cups of coffee securely placed into cup holders they returned to the _autoroute._ Silence settled inside the car, interrupted only by the rain's drumming on the roof and the music from the radio. Porthos had finally been able to get a station once they had hit the highway in Quimper. Now, every man seemed to dwell on his thoughts.

Aramis startled the others in their state of absent-mindedness when he broke the silence. “ I've been thinking.”

“Hear, hear,” Porthos replied, half-turning his head to signal his attention.

“Shut up,” Aramis countered. “I've been thinking about how you told me you got your memories back. Athos got his back after he had been shot, what was it, the right shoulder?” 

“Left,” Athos replied, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, but taut in expectation of where this conversation led to, his hand unconsciously coming up to his shoulder where the bullet had hit him, rubbing at the scar hidden beneath the shirt.

“And you were stabbed, right? After that you felt dizzy and ... whatever, and suddenly regained your memories,” Aramis addressed Porthos, who nodded in affirmation.

“Do you two remember how you died?” Aramis voice had grown quieter.

Athos heard the strain in the marksman's voice, thick with an emotion Athos couldn't identify. “You mean the battle of Rocroi? No.” Athos had often thought about it, but he had no memory of it other than that he had fought in one of the most horrible battles he had ever experienced. There might be the faint resemblance of a burning pain towards the end, but his memory was mercifully blank in that regard.

Porthos shook his head. “Not much, I remember that I went down. Couldn't get up anymore, and I was suddenly so very cold. No pain, only cold.” He exhaled heavily. “And you were there, until the end.” He faced Aramis, suddenly realizing that the other had watched them die. Both of them.

“Well, I do.” Aramis stayed curled in the backseat, not specifically looking at anyone, but when he continued with his reminiscence, both men knew Aramis was talking about Athos. “I saw a bullet hit you right in the heart. You fell from your horse and were dead even before you hit the ground. I had no chance to get to you,” he muttered, his thoughts wandering back to that fateful day. Aramis cleared his throat, his gaze shifting to Porthos. “You were gone in the blink of an eye, one moment at my side, the next moment not there anymore. It took me a couple of moments before I could locate you. I saw your wounds.”

With the road noise and the rain on the roof, Aramis' voice was almost inaudible. Porthos and Athos had to strain to understand what Aramis disclosed.

“You had several stab wounds, no chance to...,” Aramis trailed off, breathing deeply once or twice. “Well, I remember I received a blow on the head, then everything went black. Or just .... nothing.” Aramis swallowed hard before continuing, “Do you understand what I mean?” Finally, Aramis looked up to see whether there was a reaction from the others.

Porthos furrowed his brow, upper lip drawn in, obviously thinking hard.

Athos immediately conceived what Aramis was up to and only now, after Aramis had brought to light how each of them had died on the battlefield in Rocroi in 1643, saw the parallels. “We all got our memories back through wounds similar to those fatal wounds we received on the battlefield. You bumped your head when you slipped and fell yesterday and were killed by a blow to your head.” Athos paused a moment to get the full meaning of what he just had voiced. “If I knew how Anne died, I could cause the same thing to happen to her and she would remember.”

“Well, good thing then you _don't_ know how she died,” Porthos said, adding quickly, “You don't, do you?”

Athos shook his head. “No. I've no idea, no.”

“Well, and if you did, _mon ami,_ you’d better guard her like the apple of your eye to make sure no such thing ever happens to her.” Aramis’ shudder at the possibility was unfeigned. “Milady de Winter remembering doesn’t bear contemplating.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In the late afternoon they finally reached Paris. When Athos had to choose whether to leave the _autoroute_ to turn onto the _Périphérique_ or head on, he asked, “Where do you live? We'll drop you there.”

“Rue de--,” Aramis started, remembering then that the apartment in Rue de Lourmel wasn't his home anymore. Celine had kicked him out. Thanks to the insistence of his clever, ever worrying mother and his bad luck with relationships, he had always kept a little, furnished room in the Rue Championnet an old widow rented out for a fair price. It was tiny, really, and most of the time over the recent years it had served more as a storage place for all the things none of his girlfriends wanted to see in their apartment. Now and then he had dwelt there for a couple of days or weeks when he had had a bad fight with one of his girlfriends, but it had been almost a year now since he had stayed there. Until last week, after he had packed his things and moved out of his girlfriend's apartment. Because that's what it was. Hers, not theirs. He had only moved in, with his clothes and toiletries and some books. A laptop and coffee maker. That was about all he had been allowed to contribute to their flat. That, and the money. Aramis realized he had been quiet for too long when he saw Athos' stare in the mirror. “Ahm, Rue Championnet, that's in the eighteenth _arrondissement_ , just south of _Boulevards des Maréchaux._ ” 

Sometimes, Athos found, Aramis was like an open book, a book Athos was able to read as well as he read his newspaper every morning. And this hadn't changed from the years back then. “You do not really expect me to drive through the center of Paris to the other side during rush-hour, do you?” 

Aramis eyes widened a fraction. “No, umh, certainly not. I can take the metro if you---” 

“I live on rue Dante and Porthos quasi lives just around the corner,” Athos continued, ignoring Aramis' speaking. “If it's not too much of a hassle, I’ll drive to my place and you can spend the night there. Quite obviously, you already have everything you'll need in that backpack of yours, even for a couple more days.” A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that he had Aramis' full attention. “I can take you to your place tomorrow, if you want. Apart from that, we need to discuss your new employment relationship anyway and I intended to invite you all to a decent diner tonight. Being all together again calls for a little celebration.” The grateful smile Athos received via the rearview mirror was answer enough, and so he steered the car onto Rue d'Auteil once they were off the _autoroute._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. These old wounds can heal in time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Aramis said, “to bring it back to d'Artagnan. I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today (or tomorrow, depending on the time zone you're in) is Santiago's birthday. To celebrate this in a fitting way, you get a longer chapter :-)

CHAPTER 6

~These old wounds can heal in time~

In the end, Aramis stayed for three nights in Athos' spacious guestroom before Porthos gave him a lift to his tiny lodging to pick up fresh clothes and other stuff. Aramis had gladly embraced Athos' offer to stay with him as long as it took the marksman to find an affordable apartment in the vicinity of their office. Conveniently, Athos' place was also much closer to the Hôpital Saint-Antoine where Aramis worked as paramedic, though he had already handed in his resignation there. 

The first time Aramis set foot into the office was the day after they had returned from Brittany. He was given a guided tour of the rooms and facilities, leaving Aramis lost for words when halfway through the office, Athos stopped at a door and showed him his new workplace. All in all seven rooms were arranged around the reception area where Charlène had her desk, along with a small waiting area for clients, consisting of two two-seater couches and a small coffee table. Behind Charlène’s desk were two smaller rooms, one housing the copy machine, fax machine, server and other technical stuff as well as office supplies, the other room was the office's small kitchen. 

On the left side was the meeting room, stretching around the buildings' corner, overlooking Rue Dante as well as Rue Lagrange and revealing the steeples of Notre Dame in the distance. Next to it was Athos' office, the second biggest of the rooms in the firm. Opposite Athos' _bureau_ , on the right side of the copy room was an empty workspace, followed by the office Porthos occupied. Next to Porthos' working area was another vacant room. All the offices with the exception of the kitchen and copy room, and, of course, the toilets right next to the entrance, had a glass wall bottom to top towards the reception area. The lower half of the glass was frosted for visual cover, the upper half made of clear glass, with blinds installed to keep out prying eyes if need be. The doors were completely made of frosted glass, but had a wonderful engraving in the middle of them. That's where Aramis stood now, touching the cool glass and following the intricate pattern cut into it.

“If you'd rather have the other vacant office, it's not a problem. We can switch the doors, and your phone is not yet activated. Charlène will see to it tomorrow,“ Athos offered.

Aramis couldn't respond immediately, but had the presence of mind to shake his head negatively. “No,” he managed to say finally. “No, the room is perfect. It's..... Athos, this is beautiful!” 

All the doors to the offices had similar engravings, and skilfully weaved into the patterns were letters that formed a name, which was only discernible if one stood really close. Aramis followed the letters with his eyes, and it was his name, _Aramis_ , that had been added to the piece of art. From a first cursory glance, the carvings looked a little bit like lines and scratches wildly thrown together, but upon looking closer, Aramis could make out a beautifully crafted _fleur-de-lys_ in the heart of numerous elegantly curved lines, tiny flowers and fleurs-de-lis. He realized that it very much resembled the pauldron he had worn for so many years. Even the scratches and rapier marks were there. 

Aramis took a closer look at the other doors now and recognized similar patterns on all of them. Athos' door showed a fleur-de-lis with added filaments, similar to the Florentine lily, surrounded by tiny droplets and curved lines, as if blood or wine had splattered around the coat of arms of the House of Bourbon.

Porthos' name wrapped itself around a broad, stylized fleur-de-lis. Looking closer, Aramis could see that the fine lines that scored the frosted glass were not symmetrical patterns, but rather formed a kind of map, the vertical lines even thinner than the horizontal ones and hardly distinguishable. Aramis thought it must be a segment of what the Court of Miracles had looked like on an ancient map. 

The fourth door, purer and in clearer lines, held the name d'Artagnan, neatly written around a multi-layered fleur-de-lis, lucent cornflowers framing the heraldic iris, shaping a coat of arms. 

“You really must have been confident of finding all of us, if you already had the doors made like this.” Aramis tore his eyes away from the piece of art to look over at Athos.

“It was Porthos' idea when we moved into the new office. We wanted a bigger office in order to have enough space once you and d'Artagnan joined us, and Porthos suggested we could go ahead and put all the names on the doors. He never doubted that one day the four of us would be here together again.” 

Porthos snorted. “Yeah, it was my idea to put our names on the door, but Athos designed the patterns and etchings. I would have had problems recalling exactly what all our pauldrons looked like, let alone turning them into something as artistic as these.” Porthos grinned. “Don't you want to go inside? As nice as this is, there's a whole workplace waiting for you inside.” 

Aramis smiled back, “This, _mon ami,_ will be hard to top, but I'll give it a try.” He walked over to his new office and stepped in. The room was fully furnished, and not only with desk, chair, shelves and whatever else an office usually was equipped with, it already held everything one usually found in a well-used office. It looked as if it's occupant had just returned from a longer holiday. The only thing he needed to do was boot up his computer and place a cup of coffee beside the keyboard.

“Welcome home,” Athos said softly, leaning in the door and looking so content with himself that Aramis thought the look suited Athos rattling good. The older man seemed genuinely happy, and this was a sight his brothers had not seen often on their captain's face.

Aramis took a seat behind his new desk, smiling at the other men. “I think I like it. A lot. Shall we get started?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The easiness with which Aramis slipped into the business and the efficiency and their well-matched way of working together was astonishing. It not only gained them Charlène's admiration, but soon their outstandingly good personal security service was talked of everywhere in the Parisian upper class. Everyone wanted to hire them, not only for personal protection, but also for stolen goods and missing persons cases the metropolitan police did not have enough manpower to follow up on. 

Soon they became known as one of the most upscale and effective security and investigative agencies in Paris. Athos' eloquent diction and aristocratic bearing certainly helped a lot in that regard. They had to refuse clients due to lacking time and personal, but they were in agreement about not hiring additional employees. They waited for only one other to join their firm. 

“One day you'll be protecting the head of state,” Charlène announced once, “just wait and see.”

Porthos barked a laugh. “ _Ma douce,_ we already served the king. Been there, done that. Nothing new.”

Charlène grimaced. “The king, no less. Looks like I must have missed that assignment. You do know France is a republic meanwhile?”

Athos replied in a pacifying voice, “We know. And yet we've already met a lot of the crowned heads of European royalty. Believe me.”

Charlène shook her head and let the topic drop, turning to her computer to go on with typing. When it came to those three, she was often clueless about the special bond they shared. Sometimes it seemed like they fell back on life-long friendships, though Charlène was pretty sure her bosses had only met a few years ago, around the time Porthos had joined the firm, and the newest one certainly only some weeks ago. It was a mystery to her, but Charlène didn't mind, she was just happy to be a part of it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

With Porthos at his side, Aramis finally managed to go and see Fabrice's family. He had not visited them for five years, not once seen them again after the day of Fabrice's funeral. Neither had he dared to call. Like a coward he had every so often dialed and hung up after the first ring. 

When they neared Villiers-le-Bel, Aramis begged to turn around. “Please, let's drive back, I can't see them, not after such a long time! What will they think?”

Porthos, who had insisted on driving and sat firmly behind the steering wheel, in control of driving on or turning around, remained unyielding. “No.”

“Please, Porthos! I'll go on Sunday. Next Sunday. Really. I need a little more time, I don't know what to say.”

“I'm not going to discuss this with you and I'm not going to turn around. So you might as well stop whining now and come to terms with the fact that we are almost there.” 

When they arrived, Fabrice's father welcomed Aramis like a long lost son. Fabrice's eldest sister Maëlle greeted him with tears glistening in her eyes and a big smile on her face. Her two daughters had grown into young ladies and were shy; the youngest hardly remembered Aramis but that didn't stop him from drilling the marksman with questions. Antonio, Maëlle's husband, hugged Aramis fiercely, raining down a stream of Spanish words on him, all in relation to the Spaniard's expressions of joy. He insisted both men had to inspect the stables with him immediately, they had new fine steeds he wanted to show Aramis and his friend. 

After diner, which was an affair as loud and boisterous as it had been for as long as Aramis could remember, Aramis had vanished, and only a hint from Monsieur de Laquemont put Porthos on the right trail. He found the marksman at the small village's cemetery, in front of the de Laquemont's family grave where Fabrice had been laid to rest. Porthos made his presence known simply by stepping up beside the smaller man and giving the other the time he needed. When Aramis dragged a sleeve over his eyes to soak up the moisture that had collected there, Porthos moved a step closer and put a supporting hand on his friends' shoulder. 

Aramis took a deep breath and raised his head, smiling at the bigger man. “We can go now, if you want.”

Porthos smiled back and nodded, “Whenever you are ready.”

In silence they walked back to the estate and bid the family adieu. The de Laquemonts exhorted a promise from Aramis to come back again soon, holding Porthos liable for that promise lest Aramis tried to wriggle out of it. Maëlle thanked Aramis for his visit; she was glad her brother's closest friend had not forgotten the family, had not forgotten her brother. That's what she whispered in Aramis' ear when she held him tight to say good-bye. Antonio once more released a string of Spanish words to give voice to his joy that Aramis had finally shown up. 

Once they were back in the car and on their way home, Aramis was happier and far less burdened than he had been in a long time. He was glad Porthos had hauled him along despite his earlier pleading.

With a hasty glance, Porthos eyed his friend. He knew that henceforth time could start healing what Aramis had refused to let go of until now.

They drove back without speaking until they crossed the city borders, then Aramis broke the silence. “You know, I do still believe in the resurrection of the body. Even with me and you and Athos here now, flying in the face of that concept, I fully believe that there is resurrection after we die. If I did not, I would hardly be able to go through the losses in my life. My father's death was like a blow to the gut, totally unexpected and leaving me....,” Aramis fished for the right words, continuing after a couple of seconds, “unstable for a while. I felt it was utterly unfair and I was so angry with him I even refused to go to the funeral or step into a church again. For a pretty long while.” 

Aramis eyed Porthos for a moment, then turned his head to look out of the passenger window, watching the city's night lights rush by. “When.... this happened, with my friends, it was one of the very few things that hauled me out of my misery; the knowledge that they were not really dead, that their lives had not been in vain, that there was a life after death.” Aramis turned in his seat to face Porthos, the bigger man now and then darting a look at his friend. “I'm not yet sure what _this_ is, a second chance, rebirth? And I don't know where our souls were in the time in between. I have no recollection, other than, when I saw you both die, I felt no regret. I was sure we would all meet again at the side of God.” Aramis smirked and nodded lightly. “Yeah, even Athos. Whether or not he wants to hear it, that's what I firmly believed. Still believe. Anyway, I don't know, maybe we were there and were sent back, or we remained in some kind of intermediate world. But I believe that once I die here in this life, I will be resurrected. I know my friends are up there somewhere, maybe planning some mischief for when I join them. Well, not Suhaib, probably, but the rest are there.” The genuine smile on Aramis' face turned into a grin. “Well, truth be told, I'm not _that_ sure anymore I will be resurrected, maybe we will be reborn on and on until the Day of Judgment?” Aramis shrugged his shoulder, turning his gaze to look out the windshield. “I guess I could live with that.” 

Though spoken almost inaudibly, Porthos heard it nonetheless. “I could live with that, too, _mon ami_. As long as you and Athos and the pup, once we got hold of him, are there to join me,” Porthos chuckled, then turned right onto the _Périphérique_ , knowing the extra kilometers would still take them to their homes faster, even if passing _Arc de Triomphe_ at this time of day – well _any_ time of the day – was pure horror. 

After a few minutes of both men dwelling on their thoughts, Porthos declared, “You know, I sometimes envied you back then for your unswerving faith. Oh, your belief and prayers carried me along too,” Porthos said hurriedly, seeing Aramis open his mouth to respond, “don't get me wrong. But I used to think, sometimes, it would have been nice to have my own faith. It always escaped me though, never could get the hang of it.”

Silence settled in the car again and Aramis dared not break it. He could virtually feel Porthos mulling things over, and Aramis would wait it out if his friend wanted to share some of those thoughts. 

“I wished I had had a little of your faith when my parents died,” Porthos' deep voice broke the quietness, “I lost them pretty quickly one after the other. I was very angry, certain I had been robbed of a happy life.” Porthos pressed his lips into a thin line. “That was not true, right? It wouldn't have been a happier life, I only thought it could have been. To be honest, I think living with my auntie was far better for me than.... well, you know. But that doesn't change the fact that I was a very angry kid. With no hope or faith of ever seeing them again in some afterlife, or the knowledge they are up there looking out for me. Well,” Porthos shrugged, “I survived and I think some things from my auntie's biblical recitals even stuck. But I'm glad your faith remained with you, here and now.” Porthos stretched his arm to smack Aramis lightly on the shoulder. “Make sure to always stay near me, so some of the divine grace devolves upon me, too, will ya?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Four months later_

In the four months since Aramis had joined Athos and Porthos in their small but impressive security service, they had completed numerous assignments, some more dangerous than others, though Aramis hadn't had much to do in regards to patching one of them up afterwards. He had, however, had his hands full with trying to keep one or the other of their opponents alive after LaFère Security had finished its job. More than once the paramedics had been impressed upon their arrival with what Aramis had accomplished in stabilizing the patient and keeping him alive. That is, _before_ they found out that he was among those inflicting such damage on the poor creatures. The policemen that found them on site usually had less kind words to offer regarding the results of the three men's handiwork. Often Athos, Porthos and Aramis had to report to the commissioner's office immediately. Most of the inspectors, however, waved the Inseparables through to the Chief Inspector responsible for the fifth _arrondissement_ without so much as looking up, mumbling something about home turf. 

Chief Inspector Veyrenc usually gave them a wordy speech about turf and scopes and responsibility, but also saved them from being arrested now and then, when they might have operated in a legal gray area. Porthos suspected it had something to do with the wealth and connections of Athos' father, but never voiced that thought around the former _comte_. 

Said Chief Inspector also came up one day with the term _les Inseparables_ , for he claimed he could not remember having seen any one of the men without the others in tow, at least not when they had to report to him. Amazingly enough, that name spread through various police precincts and soon, when confronted by policemen on one of the crimes scenes, they were no longer referred to as the LaFère brutes anymore but _les Inseparables_. 

When Charlène heard that term for the first time she laughed heartily for a moment, then grew serious again. “Yes, I think that name is spot-on. Wonder why I didn't come up with it before. It really _is_ rare seeing one of you without the others. Though I might have a disadvantage, what with me and you three working here in the office together every day,” she added with a grin. Later, when she brought in a report and fresh coffee for the three men sitting together in Athos' office discussing strategy, she mused, “You know, I think I remember that term from French history lessons, where we read about King's Musketeers or some such.” Laughing she put down the tray, handing out coffee cups and added, “I think that's what _I_ will call you from now on. The Musketeers. My three Musketeers.” She winked at Porthos. “I think that becomes you. God knows, the funny beards and whiskers you sport are quite fitting already.”

Athos simply raised his typical brow but remained quiet, Porthos barked a laugh and Aramis rose to grab Charlène's hand. Bowing slightly he reached for her hand, kissing the air above her knuckles. “Madame, that's a term I gladly accept. In fact, it makes my heart happy and from now on I shall be your loyal Musketeer, you may command me as you wish.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

What they hadn't achieved so far was finding their missing brother. Or anyone else from the times of Louis XIII., though, there had been the incident with Aramis and Porthos binge-watching Dr. Who on BBC one evening. Aramis had insisted it was essential to keep up to date with actual trendy TV series, especially if one wanted to get into a conversation with young ladies at the clubs or attractive tourists at the Musée d'Orsay. 

Half an hour into the most recent series, Porthos called Athos and demanded he join them _immediately_ at Porthos' place, lest Aramis succumb to a heart attack if their 'captain' didn't intervene and exercise his authority. When Athos arrived a couple of minutes later, Porthos opened the door and wordlessly pointed to the living room where Aramis was pacing before the screen, ranting and raving. Upon Athos' entering Aramis pointed to the TV screen. “Look, it's him. It's Richelieu! Look!” 

Indeed, Athos realized, the British actor currently impersonating the Doctor had a striking resemblance with the former First Minister of France. 

“Look at the face, look at his cold eyes!” Aramis hollered, “He'll pay for what he did to Adele! He'll beg and grovel before he dies!” 

It took awhile for Porthos and Athos to calm Aramis and convince him of the unlikelihood that whoever that actor was, he would materialize any minute in Paris. They looked up the name, but it bore not the least similarity to Armand-Jean du Plessis, _Duc de Richelieu_. That fact, however, didn't reassure Aramis in the slightest. He switched off the TV, threw the remote onto the couch as if it burned his hand and stared out of the living room window, brooding and mentally absent.

Later, home alone again, Athos investigated a little more, and found that while the actor's father was from Italy, passing on the Italian name to his son, the mother, who had died shortly after giving birth, was Irish and called Edel-Armande Duplessis. He stowed this knowledge away for later, but kept an eye on press releases and gossip regarding the actor from then on.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Presently, Aramis lounged on the small couch in Athos' office, lazily watching the other man fill out forms and papers. They had an appointment with a new client at 3 pm, so there was still time for some reflections. 

Porthos came back from the _boulangerie_ , balancing three cups of coffee and a bag of fresh croissants in one hand, fumbling with his mobile with the other. The moment he hit the speaker button, the phone stopped buzzing. “Shit”, he mumbled, dropping the bag into Aramis' lap. He stowed away his mobile and handed out the coffee cups. Then he straddled the chair in front of Athos' desk. “Why is Charlène not here today?” he asked the room at large. 

“Doctor's appointment,” Athos replied without looking up.

“Mmhm,” Porthos grumbled.

“So,” Aramis said, “to bring it back to d'Artagnan. I have an idea.” 

Both men looked over at Aramis.

“Let's hear it then,” Porthos encouraged.

“Do you remember when we first met d'Artagnan? When he came to Paris?”

Athos rolled his eyes. “You're not really asking this, are you?”

This gained him a pointed stare from Aramis. “I mean do you remember what had transpired before he burst into the garrison, crying murder and aiming a pistol towards you?”

“Oh please, Aramis! I'm not senile. His father was murdered, presumably by me, that's why he tried to stab me with that kitchen knife he called a rapier. And I had to face a firing squad, in case you forgot.”

“Ah, yes, that too. No, I mean _after_ his father was murdered and _before_ he stormed into the garrison.” Aramis noted his friends' blank expressions. “And I'm not referring to Constance, since we haven't found her yet either she wouldn't be helpful, right?” Aramis added expectantly, waiting for the penny to drop. 

It didn't drop, obviously, because both his friends kept staring at him, waiting for Aramis to elaborate further. Said man, formerly known as the regiment's finest marksman, huffed now, rolling his eyes at the shortsightedness of his friends. 

“He slept with your wife,” Aramis said bluntly, pointing his finger at Athos. “Former wife. Back then,” he added hurriedly.

“Yes, evidently,” Athos replied in a flat voice, while Porthos slowly blew out air, wondering if it had been wise of Aramis to mention that incident, affair, whatever. The former _comte_ was still a bit touchy if talks got onto the subject of his ex-wife, regardless of which century they were talking about.

When Porthos added nothing to Athos' short reply, Aramis rose from his seat, planting himself in front of the others. “I've never met your wife, Athos. Ex-wife. In this life, I mean.” Bloody hell, why was this so complicated, this life, that life! Aramis ruffled his hair. “I'm sure she is a –,” he interrupted himself. Nice woman didn't seem right, they had divorced after all, though he didn't know anything about what had happened prior to that divorce. Porthos hadn't been very talkative in that regard though Aramis didn't know if Porthos knew much at all. “I'm sure she is not like Milady back then, but what I thought was--” 

Athos interrupted Aramis' elaboration. “No, you're wrong. She is.”

“She is?” Aramis asked, a little confused. “What?”

“Anne. Every bit Milady de Winter.” Athos eyed his friends. “I only realized after I remembered my 17th century life, and after the divorce. She is every bit like the Anne we knew back then. I didn't see it while we were married, though in my defense I have to say, I was away on operations abroad a lot. I hardly had time to come to know her better and she _is_ still good at hiding that side of her. I can only hope she never regains her memory. This Anne is already bad enough without her former life's knowledge.“

“Oh Athos, that's even better! Errm, I mean, in regard to finding d'Artagnan. Don't you see it? I have the feeling history repeats itself in some strange way. Look at us. You from that old-established family with enough wealth to buy, I don't know, half of France if you craved it. Porthos born and raised not in the Court of Miracles but Clichy-sous-Bois. And I...” He gestured to himself, not needing to point it out in minute detail. They got what he meant.

“In the arms of your wife. Ex-wife,” Porthos declared, the penny finally dropping. “You think we'll find the pup with Athos ex-wife? Really?”

“I don't know, but for lack of any better alternatives it's worth a try. There have been too many coincidences so far, and since none of us has any clue what happened to d'Artagnan at all during or after the war, I think we should start where we first met him.”

“Anne's not here, she is in London, last I heard. So, unless you want to fly over and start searching all of England for d'Artagnan, I suggest we think of something else.” Athos looked over at Aramis, saw the man's expression and sighed. “Look, while I think you are right in regard to the similarities in our lives then and now, I really don't think this is a good idea. However,” Athos raised his hand to stop the younger man from interrupting him, “I have a friend in London who is acquainted with Anne. Well, he works for her, to be precise. I'll ask him if he has seen a young, brown-haired man hanging around her. OK?”

“Ask him to send you pictures of any male hanging around your ex-wife.”

Athos didn't bother to answer Aramis, instead he resumed working on his papers, asking, “Don't you two have work to do?”

“No,” was the answer Athos got in unison.

“Then busy yourselves with something for heaven's sake and stop grating on my nerves.”

“Do you think it's wise to search for d'Artagnan at all?” Porthos asked Aramis, not bothered in the least that Athos had more or less given the broadest of hints to leave him alone. 

“Don't you want to find him?” Aramis asked back, surprised.

“Of course I do!” Porthos replied.

Athos sighed. Deeply.

Both men's eyes gravitated to their former leader who had so easily slipped into this role again.

'Go on' Athos gestured, throwing his pen on the desk. Oh, he should have known how these two would grate on his nerves with their bickering and bantering. Some things never changed.

“Look,” Porthos explained, addressing both men, “what if we find him and he remembers. The way I see it, there are two main possibilities. If d'Artagnan survived the battle and the war and returned to Paris, he must have mourned us, who knows, maybe even found our bodies on the battlefield. It would most likely have broken, or even destroyed him. Think about how the death of his father haunted him for years, even if he thought he was good at hiding it. Never thought any of us would notice.” Porthos paused. 

Athos leaned forward, expression troubled. He had tried to avoid letting such thoughts claim his mind, which was almost impossible now with Porthos painting such clear pictures.

Aramis watched his friend with big eyes, waiting for Porthos to continue, though he almost dreaded what else the other would have to say.

“The other option is, he died as well that day – and without us at his side, mind you. Meaning he wasn't given the chance to return to Paris and to Constance. If we find him and he remembers, these memories will resurface, reopen wounds filled with grief.” Porthos didn't want to say it, but he had started this and would bring it to an end. “Maybe it would be better for the pup if he never had to remember.”

A depressed silence settled over the room, disturbed only by the siren of a passing ambulance. 

Athos rose and walked over to the window, facing the steeples of Notre Dame in the distance. Until now he had successfully repressed any thought of his former protégé, other than their efforts to find out anything about his whereabouts in this century. Now he couldn’t prevent them from wandering back to how the boy had suffered silently during the war. For in the end, that’s what he had been back then. A boy. Too young in years to deserve being thrown into the hell the Thirty Years War had proved to be. Porthos and Aramis had seen war before, both having served in various regiments before they joined the Musketeers. They had had an understanding of what was to come, and Athos' soul had been hardened through strict upbringing and life, so that he had been able to let the desperation and despair of war deflect off him. The older Musketeers had had experiences they could fall back on, while d’Artagnan had been thrown into the whole mess unprepared. War, the young man had soon found out, was not in the least comparable to the service to king and country he had fulfilled before. Brawls with Red Guards, hunting trips with the king or palace parade were nothing compared to the hell the battlefields turned out to be. Not even the most dangerous mission he had accomplished with his brothers could have prepared him for what war with Spain ensued. The most battle seasoned soldiers could not come out of such craziness unscathed in mind and soul. D’Artagnan had nearly broken from the brutality and inhumanness war had hurled at him. Thinking about how the boy would have had to move on without his older brothers at his side was something Athos dared not let cross his mind. 

“Wouldn't you want to? If you had been in his position?” Aramis asked quietly into the stillness of the room.

Athos cleared his throat. “You saw both of us die, and yet you were happy to find us again, memories or not.” Athos looked intently at Aramis. “Or does it bother you, the memories, the war?”

“No. I would willingly relive all those moments again if it grants me being at your side, here and now.” Aramis hesitated a moment, looking to Porthos. “But I'm not like d'Artagnan. We all know how he was, emotional, easy to hurt. And I didn't leave as much behind as he did.” Uncertainty wavered in Aramis' voice. It was not really true, Aramis had left and lost his son and the one love he had had to deny himself. The one love his heart was not allowed to cherish. It had hurt to leave them, and it had hurt to remember, though now it was but a faint shadow, a dull pain, only now and then marring his mood. And he had never had the prospect of the shared future d’Artagnan had been able to look forward to.

No one spoke for a while, until Athos broke the silence. “Would we really be doing him a favor if we forced such remembrance on him?”

“We could try and find him and never let him know who we are or who he was. I think I could live with that,” Porthos offered.

“But can we really influence whether he remembers or not? What if he already knows he has lived another life. We can't influence anything. Maybe _he_ is already searching for _us_. I say we keep looking for him. Once we find him, we can decide what to do.” Aramis thought about how despondent he had been when Athos and Porthos had found him, and how the bleakness of his life had changed in a minute; with his brothers at his side he had let the beauty of life grasp hold of his soul again. 

“He is right. I need at least to see if d'Artagnan came back, too. If he has no clue who we are, we can see what we'll do then. Besides, he is stronger than we might give him credit for. Whatever happened to him back then, I'm sure he will endure the truth,” Athos put an end to their contemplation.

Whether it was the determination in Athos' voice or because he was their accepted leader once more, everyone knew the discussion was over and they had come to a conclusion about this topic. How they were to find d'Artagnan, however, was yet to be solved.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bureau_ = office
> 
>  _Ma douce_ = My Sweet
> 
> _boulangerie_ = bakery


	7. You feel you're hurting but you can't see the blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Liar,” d'Artagnan roared, trying to punch Athos in the face with his free hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this chapter should have been the last one to the short story I had in mind about the brothers being reborn in modern day Paris, hence the flashback to the war at the end. After a conversation with Issa on FFNet, early in the process of writing this, who asked if there would be physically hurt Aramis in it as well (and angst and fear of losing Aramis and the brothers fighting for their lives....) I thought, why not? Why not add a little more hurt/comfort and action and swashbuckling swordplay? Ergo, this is not the last chapter; we are not even halfway through the story. Nevertheless, I kept the flashback at the end of the chapter because it was already written, and it gives a little insight into the pup's frame of mind back then, but it's not what d'Artagnan remembers at this moment.

CHAPTER 7  
~You feel you're hurting but you can't see the blood~

 

A couple of days later found all three men hanging over their laptops, each of them engaged in online research. Tasked with a new job the day prior, it proved more difficult than they had assumed. Athos already regretted accepting the job which would cost them much more time and effort than he had originally thought, and he had seen from the beginning that it was an almost fruitless undertaking. If it hadn't been one of his comrades from his time in Kosovo, asking for help for his brother-in-law, Athos would have turned down the job.

“I'm starving,” Aramis whined, loud enough that the others could hear him through the open doors. He had realized in surprise that the tiny clock on the screen's bottom right side showed it was already past midday. If he hadn't been so absorbed in his research, he would have noticed that Charlène had left the office for lunch a quarter hour ago. His eyes hurt from staring at the screen, reading report after report and he stretched his sore muscles. “Let's go to _La Baleine_ , if we go now we might still be able to get a decent table,” he hollered across the abandoned reception area. 

When none of the others showed the slightest inclination to answer, probably too engrossed with their research, Aramis whined a little more, “Come on! I'm _starving!”_ To emphasize his intention he locked his computer and walked over to Porthos' office, leaning against the door frame. 

Porthos ignored Aramis and his foot tapping and harrumphing until he had finished with downloading some sensitive information. Shutting down the computer he grabbed his mobile and keys and dragged Aramis with him through the door, arm slung around the other's shoulder. “Athos, come! Aramis needs to get something into his stomach!” They heard Athos curse, but the older man came out of his office a moment later, glaring at them as if they were two querulous children and not starving men.

Just as Porthos and Aramis stepped out of the front door they heard Athos swear, mumbling something about his misplaced mobile before he hurried back inside the building. While waiting for their third, they saw a young man crossing the street and heading towards the office. Shading his eyes against the sun, Aramis tried to decide if it was a client or maybe a courier with a delivery, for the man was obviously heading in their direction.

The young man, a boy really, now that he was near enough to be observed more closely, had his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and a cap shading the rest of his face.

“Olivier d'Autevielle? From LaFère Security Service?” the boy addressed Aramis. 

Aramis shook his head, pointing to Athos who just this moment stepped through the door.

“Yes?” Athos replied, lifting his head from checking mail on his mobile to see who was approaching.

“You and your damned so called security service are responsible for my father's death. You're gonna pay for it and I'm not talking about your bloody money. You can stuff your insurance shit up your arse!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, young man,” Athos replied in a calm voice, darting a quick sideways glance to his friends. “This is the first I've heard about anyone coming to harm through services we offer.” Well, at least in regard to their clients. It didn't hold true for the ones who were on the receiving end.

“Come to harm? What shit are you talking? Do you think this is funny?! Haha. Funny indeed. Maybe you're just not interested in the casualties your shady business methods cause,” the young man replied, taking a further step towards them, entering Athos' personal space. 

Athos raised his hands defensively, unsure what and whom he dealt with here.

Aramis took a protective step closer to Athos. “Who are you, if one may ask?” Aramis, paying no heed to the accusations, questioned the young man, though he already had a faint idea. “A name might help settle this matter quickly.”

“There's no 'settling this matter',” the young man hissed, removing his sun-glasses with his left hand and stuffing it into the shirt pocket. “I'm Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, and you will pay for my father's death,” he shouted heatedly, simultaneously producing a switchblade from his back pocket. However, the men's reactions were not exactly what he had expected, causing a flicker of doubt to shade his angry expression. The hand holding the knife stopped in its motion. 

Porthos started laughing softly, a broad smile on his face despite the serious matter and the obvious grief and anger the boy radiated, and it seemed the big man had no intention or ability to stop anytime soon.

“Porthos, please,” Athos gave his friend a poignant raised-eyebrow look, “you certainly are not helping with this.”

Porthos did his best to stop laughing, however, he wasn't able to swipe the big grin from his face completely. “ _Excuse-moi,”_ he offered belatedly to d'Artagnan, “I'll explain it to you later, nothing to do with me mocking the death of your father. But, a kitchen knife against three of us? Really?”

Bringing up the knife in a swift motion, d'Artagnan aimed for Athos chest, but his arm was stopped mid-air by Aramis' hand grabbing the young man's wrist. One jerky movement later d'Artagnan had dropped the knife and Aramis pinned the boy's right arm to his back. 

D'Artagnan gasped angrily.

“Sorry,” Aramis murmured, hating to cause his brother pain. 

“Charles d'Artagnan,” Athos addressed the young man, the syllables rolling on his tongue like a long forgotten dish he only now was able so savor again, starved for the taste of it. “I am sorry for your loss, but I neither knew your father nor did my company or my employees have anything to do with his death.” 

“Liar,” d'Artagnan roared, trying to punch Athos in the face with his free hand.

Athos sidestepped the fist, shoving the hand away. “Come inside so we can talk about this issue like grown men. If anything relating to your father's death points to our firm, I'd like to know what it is and who is behind this.“ 

D'Artagnan tugged and wriggled, trying to escape Aramis' iron grip, but all it gained the young man was having his other arm grabbed and bent up behind his shoulder blades, too, increasing the pain. 

“Please,” Athos added in a soft, almost pleading voice. 

This caused d'Artagnan to stop fighting for a moment and look at the man in front of him, really look closely at him for the first time. The multi-layered blue of the man’s eyes reminded d’Artagnan of the hot spring pools he’d once visited in Wyoming, deep and unfathomable, maybe even as eruptive. D'Artagnan blinked. Suddenly he had the feeling there was something familiar about those eyes. An unknown emotion ran through him like the recollection of an old memory that was not his....

.... _he no longer sleeps and finds it hard to breathe, his heart’s incised with what he's seen and done, there's no beauty, no_ joie de vivre _anymore...._

D'Artagnan blinked again and the feeling was gone, faint as it had been, leaving a slight shiver running over the young man's skin. What remained was the other man's gaze, blue eyes still boring into him, awaiting a reaction. The steely stare that seemed as cold as a winter's morn bore such a kindness that d'Artagnan was taken aback for a moment. He swallowed. He had come to kill the man responsible for his father's death, no matter the consequences. Or at least make him pay for it, painfully. 

He felt the man behind him shift, loosening his grip, and d'Artagnan knew he should try and grab his knife, finishing what he had come here for, but his limbs wouldn't obey. The man's gaze somehow kept him at bay, and the friendly demeanor confused d'Artagnan. He nodded his consent, and his arms were released. Dazed he followed the man inside, the two others trailing behind him, making sure he didn't try to attack their boss again. Belatedly d'Artagnan realized he hadn't even picked up his knife and stopped, turning around impulsively to retrieve the weapon. The big, dark-skinned man, however, had picked up the knife and waved it towards the young man now, signaling d'Artagnan to go on. 

Once inside the office, d'Artagnan was led through the reception area and ushered into one of the offices. The older man pointed to the small couch, but d'Artagnan remained standing. After a couple of moments the young man started pacing in front of the sofa, obviously not sure if he should have let himself be persuaded to enter the office. He'd lost the advantage of just stabbing Olivier d'Auteveille as he had intended.

None of the other men felt the urge to sit down either, so they scattered over the room. Aramis placed himself in front of the desk while Porthos leaned against the wall beside the window, arms crossed and waiting. Athos stayed where he was in the middle of the room beside the armchair opposite the couch, all of them watching d'Artagnan pacing about.

D'Artagnan stopped in his tracks.

“Dear God,” Porthos murmured, “it's good to see you, pup.”

“What?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Nothing.”

“So, please tell us why you think our firm is responsible for your father's death,” Athos picked up the conversation from before. 

Growing anger colored d'Artagnan's voice. "My mom was terrified that something was going to happen to my dad since he was on the road alone a lot. So much so that she convinced him to upgrade the security system on his car after this employee of yours materialized on our door step one day and described in great detail what all could happen to someone driving on his own in an area as sparsely populated as Gascony. And your firm sold him the most expensive security package you offered, only you didn't install it, did you? You got the police report that said not only did you _not_ install it properly, there also was proof that the brake line was cut, and other parts were deliberately tampered with as well!" The more he talked, the more his voice rose, the louder he got. 

“What police report?” Athos asked. “And who sold this to your father?”

“What do you mean, didn't you even read the report? The police told us one of your men picked up a copy personally. And _you_ sold it, in case you have forgotten.” D'Artagnan took a step towards Athos, his voice dripping with venom.

“None of us picked up a police report. Where was this, where did it take place. Here in Paris?”

“No, I already told you, I'm from Gascony. Lupiac.”

“We don't provide security systems in Gascony or anywhere outside of Paris.”

D'Artagnan stared at Athos hostilely. “You sold that crap to my father and you manipulated his car.”

“Who was it? Look at us, we three are the only ones who work for LaFère Security. Was it one of us? Do you recognize anyone of us?”

D'Artagnan shook his head.

“You said there was a police report. Didn't the police investigate further? If your father died, they must have initiated a criminal investigation, the more so if it hinted at presumed deliberate intent. We never received any inquiries in that regard, or were questioned by police. When did this happen?”

“About a month ago,” d'Artagnan answered, “and why weren't you questioned by the police? The officer said the report was absolutely clear that it was not accidental.” D'Artagnan stared at Athos with wide eyes. “They said they'd investigate it and had already contacted you.”

“Charles, whoever sold your father this, whoever is responsible for it, he doesn't work for us. We have never been contacted by any police officers nor were we informed that our firm had been involved in a fatal accident or that investigations had been initiated against our firm.”

“But he said he worked for you, it was your firm's name he mentioned. It was your name he told us we should turn to, if anything was not as it ought to....” d'Artagnan's voice failed and all strength seemed to drain out of him. 

Looking at the young man, Athos could see tears glistening in d'Artagnan's eyes. 

“It's definitely _not_ as it should be,” d'Artagnan whispered, quickly dragging his sleeve over his eyes and nose in one motion. 

“Who was this man? Do you have a name? A business card?”

D'Artagnan reached into his pocket, pulling out a battered business card. “Here,” he said, handing the card to Athos, “it's your business card with your name on it, see? Olivier d'Autevielle. He said it was the only one he currently had with him, but he wrote his name on the back. For reference reasons.”

Porthos and Aramis stepped closer, rounding the young man to take a look at the business card Athos held in his hand. It was one of their business cards, one of the older ones that had been printed on thick cream paper, with the firm's name, address and phone number on it, holding the additional information of Athos' name and direct line. They all had these cards, each one with his own name on it.

Athos flipped the card to read what was written on the back and they all gasped simultaneously upon reading the name.

In fine letters, written in black ink, it read:

_Jusac de Rochefort  
At your service~~_  


The three Inseparables shared looks of deep concern. Their foe was back and he had already made his first move. Moreover, he was one step ahead of them. This was no coincidence, this was Rochefort's opening move on the chessboard he had set up without their knowing, and Alexandre d'Artagnan had been the pawn sacrifice. What the man really was after, was them. As long as d'Artagnan wasn't aware of the past they shared, Rochefort would likely not attack him. Rochefort had always been a man who liked to smell the fear in his opponent's odor, finding no fun in the game if the victim didn't know of the why and who. The man liked to make sure that his opponents knew what and who had hit them. 

And yet there was the chance that d'Artagnan could very well be the next victim, chosen to deal a first fatal blow to the older Musketeers. Rochefort had gained too much knowledge about each of the Inseparables' weak spots and they unfortunately still had no insight into Rochefort's eccentric mind to be able to evaluate his next moves.

It left them no choice regarding whether or not d'Artagnan should learn of his past.

As one, the Musketeers' heads turned towards the young man.

Surprised, d'Artagnan looked at their grave expressions, aware of the tension and worry radiating from these men. Like so many times before in his past, d'Artagnan had his hands tucked beneath his armpits, shoulders pulled up, making him look all the more young, vulnerable and uncertain. “What? You know who he is?”

“Charles,” Athos said in a soft voice, gazing at the young man with a fondness few would guess the man capable of, “have you ever heard of the King's Musketeers?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_He had lost them about an hour ago, and had no idea where they were. With no time to spare and no chance to even take a look around without running the risk of being stabbed to death, he had carried on alone. Not really alone, naturally, French soldiers by the dozens as well as a contingent of Swiss mercenaries were fighting side by side with him on the hillside, and they still held the line. But none of them were the ones he sought and d'Artagnan prayed his brothers had not fallen victim to the cannonballs that had shattered their ranks earlier. Without his brothers, he would be lost. He refused to admit it even to himself, but while his feet kept walking over the battlefield and his hands kept wielding a sword, he feared his soul had long since left his uniform._

_The Musketeer in front of him suddenly was thrown back, his head ripped open from a bullet, and d'Artagnan barely avoided being buried underneath the man. Struggling to get on his feet again, he spotted two enemy soldiers approaching him simultaneously, almost upon him before he could fully rise. In the nick of time he brought his sword up and managed to block the first blow, yanking the other's sword away with his hand. The blade cut through his glove, but he felt no pain. Only when he tried to grab his dagger and his hand slipped did he realize that the other's_ espada _had cut deep into his left hand and that he was losing blood. He grasped his dagger, finally, hurling it at the second soldier with a quick twist of the wrist, all the while struggling to fend off the first one trying to break d'Artagnan's defense. The dagger found its goal, sinking itself deep into the soldier's throat, a hairsbreadth over the breastbone, the enemy's eyes opening wide before he keeled over. Concentrating on the remaining soldier, d'Artagnan tried to find a gap in the other's defense. He whirled and ducked under a parry, countering with a riposte when suddenly his left foot slipped on the muddied ground and his rapier was wrenched from his hand...._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. Turn me round when I'm wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huge eyes stared at Athos. “Are you saying my father died because of you? Because of your feud with this man? Like my father was a random victim?”

Chapter 8  
~Turn me round when I'm wrong~

D'Artagnan stared at them, convinced he dealt with lunatics. Not enough that the bigger man had laughed at him upon hearing about his father's death – which was beneath contempt –, now the oldest of the three seemed to have switched the topic of the conversation completely as if there was nothing more important now than a short excursion into French history. D'Artagnan couldn't care less about Musketeers right now, so he shook his head disbelievingly. “Of course have I heard of them. Grade 7, French history. And? Do you mean to tell me they plotted to murder my father?” D'Artagnan swiveled around, his sneakers squeaking on the floor. He was still angry that he’d screwed up earlier, failing to sink his knife into Olivier d’Auteveille's heart, and intended to leave instantly. 

Aramis was quicker and had his arm wrapped around the young man in a companionable way before d'Artagnan could take another step. “Ath--, erm, Olivier simply is very interested in history, has kind of an addiction with the French kings and their loyal soldiers. Anyway....” Out of the corner of his eye Aramis caught Athos' glaring, “I think the Musketeers came to his mind because of the name Rochefort.” Gently he steered d'Artagnan in the direction of the couch, pushing the young man down to take a seat, casually dropping beside d'Artagnan, too. “Historically, the _Comte de Rochefort_ was once counterpart to the King's Musketeers, a very dangerous man. He nearly managed to kill both the king and queen. A man not to be underestimated.” Aramis slapped himself mentally for using the wrong tense, but hoped the young man didn't catch it. 

While Aramis talked, Athos and Porthos had come closer, both also taking seats. Porthos straddled the chair again and Athos ensconced himself in the armchair.

“I think Jusac de Rochefort is also a very dangerous man and we must find out want he wants and what his plans are. Killing your father must belong to some kind of plan, unless your father had enemies?” Aramis didn't believe for one minute that behind the murder of Alexandre d'Artagnan was anything else than Rochefort's vendetta with them, but they had to be cautious saying so to d'Artagnan.

“No, I cannot think of anyone who could have wanted to see my father dead. Why should anyone? My father was a good and kind man, he had no enemies.” D'Artagnan's voice wobbled. “Who is this Rochefort? What does he want?”

“You could say he is an old enemy of ours and wants to see us destroyed,” Athos explained. “I think his goal is to either ruin our firm or simply kill us.” Athos knew Rochefort was not interested in the firm's reputation. What he wanted was to spill blood, but that was another point they needed to explain to d'Artagnan with caution.

Huge eyes stared at Athos. “Are you saying my father died because of you? Because of your feud with this man? Like my father was a random victim?”

Athos cringed inwardly, keeping a mask of indifference, but Aramis couldn't stop his emotions from displaying plainly visible on his face. Porthos' face was a thundercloud carved in stone. 

“Strictly speaking, yes. I'm really sorry for this, but I'm sure Rochefort picked your father because his death would lead you to us. It's like a message to us.” Athos took a deep breath. “And I'm certain that you are in great danger. This man will not stop now and you could likely be his next victim.” He leaned forward in the chair, staring intently at d'Artagnan to make his point clear.

Silence settled in the room for a moment while the others waited for d'Artagnan's reaction.

“Why would this man want to kill me? I don't even know him. Neither my family nor I have done him harm.”

Athos rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his brow. “It's hard to explain, but we'll try nonetheless in due course. What you must know is that we will do anything in our power to see to that nothing happens to you, and that we'll catch Rochefort and bring him to justice. I give you my word.”

“Where are you staying?” Porthos asked. “Or did you just arrive in Paris?”

D'Artagnan shook his head. “No, I’ve been here since yesterday. I'm staying in a hotel on Rue Saint-Antoine. Why?” 

“Well, we have to research a couple of things. And we will continue to investigate until this is solved, that's a promise. But we'll need a little time. It would be good if you could stay in Paris for a while so we can...,” Athos trailed off. He wanted to say _keep an eye on you, protect you,_ but somehow he believed that was something the young man didn't want to hear. “We would need your help, answers and so on.” 

Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “We will find the murderer of your father, that's a promise. But you must have trust in us. I know that's not easy, but we will not let you down. This I swear by my honor,” he added in a low voice. Aramis didn't know if words of honor meant anything to d'Artagnan at all here and now, but for Aramis loyalty and honor still were the most important things a man could offer.

D'Artagnan looked from one man to the other. He didn't know what to make of this situation. He had wanted revenge for the death of his father and now he sat here, together with the man he had wanted to kill, being asked to help them bring down the one who seemed to be behind this all. D'Artagnan rose abruptly. “I better go now. There are things I have to.... sort out.” He stepped sideways towards the still open door.

“Do you have a mobile where we can reach you? Please, this is really important.” Athos rose as well, but stopped himself from following d'Artagnan out of fear the other would misinterpret his approach and bolt out of the door.

“You can call us night and day, no matter. Should you see Rochefort here in Paris, don't go near him! Call us and hide. By all means, don't confront him on your own!” Aramis had risen, too, and stretched his hand towards d'Artagnan, holding out a business card, his mobile number scribbled on the back. “Do you understand me? Keep away from this man.” 

D'Artagnan didn't know why or how, but he believed them. From their behavior towards him and what they had explained, he was convinced that they hadn't had anything to do with his father's murder. Or at least were not responsible for it, barring the fact that this man Rochefort was trying to harm them, too, and for some strange reasons had chosen to kill Alexandre d'Artagnan. He tended to trust them, even though he had met them barely half an hour ago. 

“I--,” d'Artagnan hesitated a moment, “I can give you my number, and I'd be glad if you could help me find that man. But first I need to think about all this.” The young man scratched his head, looking sheepishly at Athos. “I don't have the money to pay for your, erm...., work. We were relying on the police to investigate this, but now it seems they haven't done anything at all.”

“Dear God, you don't have to pay for anything,” Athos rushed to say, maybe a tad too eagerly. “If you need money, for your stay here, or other expanses, please let us know. We owe you, after all.”

D'Artagnan looked surprised. “Why would you, if you had nothing to do with it?” He grabbed the business cards both Porthos and Athos held out to him. “I'll send you an sms with my mobile number. I'll call you.” D'Artagnan pondered a moment if he should say good-bye, he had been raised to be polite after all, but then decided to turn and just leave the office. He stopped for a moment to orientate himself, then walked over to the door he was certain they previously had entered through and left the office.

“Why in the Lord's name didn't we find him in Lupiac?” Aramis asked after they had heard the door shut behind the boy. “We checked in all of Gascony, more than once!”

Athos shook his head disbelievingly, staring at the spot where d'Artagnan had left the office a moment ago. “Over the last five years I made at least four inquiries with the local resident's registration offices in Lupiac and surroundings. They all returned without any result. And now he simply shows up here in Paris, stating he's coming straight from Lupiac? That's unbelievable!”

“Yeah, and it's a frighteningly vivid déjà vu,” Porthos murmured, “he definitely still knows how to make an entrance.”

Aramis laughed dryly. “That he does. But we'll have to defer the miracle of his sudden emergence until later. There are more pressing problems now. Did he mention the hotel's name?” 

Porthos shook his head. “I don't think so, something on Rue Saint-Antoine. Hopefully there are not that many hotels there. Let's check,” he said, already grabbing his phone to start the online search.

“If you are still hungry, we can order something from _Nouille's._ I would rather start looking into this right away.” Athos eyed the others before walking over to his desk.

“I'll place the order,” Aramis responded, “presuming it's the usual for you. Porthos and I will go check the hotels on Rue Saint-Antoine later. Do you think Rochefort is already in Paris?” 

“I suspect he was never anywhere else, except for a short trip to Gascony to kill d'Artagnan's father.” Athos seated himself behind his desk, booting up his computer again. “He seems to be one step ahead of us already. If he found d'Artagnan and managed to make the connection with us and the firm, he already knows a lot. The question is, whom did he find first; d'Artagnan or us? And I don't like the fact that he was in possession of one of my business cards; seems he has a lot more insight than I'm happy with.” Athos looked troubled, and the others knew there was every reason for it.

“What do you think happened to the police investigation? Do you think Rochefort laid a false trail away from us so he could launch his personal attack? Or that he bribed someone in Lupiac to see to it that the case was closed?” Aramis frowned. It took no small amount of effort and connections to stop an ongoing police investigation, even if it was in some small provincial town in Gascony. And there was still the issue of the expert opinion claiming that the accident had been caused by deliberate tampering with the car, a fact one could not so easily spirit away. 

“Sweet Jesus, I never thought we would have to deal with him in this life again.” Porthos looked up from his mobile. “There is only one hotel listed on Rue Saint-Antoine. Let's check it out later.”

Aramis' mobile buzzed. “D'Artagnan sent his number. I'll pass it on to you.” Aramis' fingers were already typing. “Any chance of putting a tracker on his phone to see where he’s going?”

Athos shook his head. “Let him be for the moment, I don't think Rochefort will strike again so soon. Let's try to get d'Artagnan involved here so we can keep an eye on him directly. We'll ask him to come by tomorrow morning for a first meeting.” Athos looked up from his screen. “Aramis, try to get hold of the police report and find out anything you can about that investigation. See what information you can get about the d'Artagnans and check the lodgings in and around Lupiac. Maybe Rochefort was so self-confidant that he checked in with his name. Porthos, you try to get information about him here in Paris. Check any names we have in relation with him, I'm sure he used at least one false name during his time as agent in Madrid, see if you find something in that regard. I don't think he is registered as Jusac de Rochefort here, that would be too easy, but we should try nonetheless. Start with the registration office here in Paris, then spread to the outskirts. He must have left some footprints somewhere.”

Both men nodded, leaving Athos' office to start researching. Aramis ordered food from their favorite Chinese place and then logged into various search portals they had access to, one of them in cooperation with the police's official online research portal.

Their food arrived together with Charlène, and she insisted they use the conference room where they could at least sit together for the meal instead of each man wolfing down his lunch in front of the computer. Grumbling, but obedient, they gathered around the conference table and used the time to not only eat lunch but also share the information they had been able to collect so far. Which was, sadly, not much. When the plates were empty and they still had not the slightest trace on Rochefort's whereabouts, they went back to work on what seemed to be the most important case they had ever worked on. More than one life was at stake.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Athos, do you have a moment?” Charlène stood in the office door, already prepared to go home. 

Surprised to see it was already so late, Athos checked his watch. It was well past 5 pm. “Sure, come in.” He pushed away some of the notes he had written down while checking information and looked expectantly to the older woman. “Sit down.”

“I wanted to ask a favor. I don't have to remind you that you owe me more than one,” she winked at her boss, “but this would really mean a lot to me. My niece is moving to Paris and looking for a job. She has just finished her apprenticeship as legal PA and, ...well, she had some quarrels with her family and is coming to stay with me, at least for a while. You know I’m not getting younger and I thought with all the increased work we‘ve since Aramis joined, and all the extra stuff we‘ve to fill in for every contract thanks to the new anti-terror laws, it would be good to have a second hand helping with the paperwork, office stuff and that sort of things.”

“Hmm, I guess you are right in regard to the increased workload. While I firmly believe that you are still capable of handling everything on your own as swift and fine as ever, it wouldn't be a bad thing to have someone else helping with it. Though if you threaten to go into retirement, I’m going to tell you I won't hire anyone else, niece or not.”

Charlène laughed. “No, don't worry, you'll have me on your hands for a few years more.” She got serious again and continued in a softer voice. “But maybe I could cut down my hours someday. I'm really not getting younger, Athos.” 

Athos only nodded; he had been quite successful in pushing that thought aside. Charlène was more than just the office's good soul and he was already dreading the day he would have to let her go.

“If you would be willing to give her a chance, I'd be in your debt forever. If it's okay, I'll bring the papers as soon as she sends them.”

“I don't think that's necessary, but bring them along if you want.”

“Thank you,” Charlène replied, rising from the chair. “I better go now, I have theater tickets for tonight and have to glam myself up.” Laughing softly she walked to the door.

“Have a nice evening and thank you,” Athos called after her, returning his gaze to the computer screen.

“Oh, before I forget it.” Charlène leaned in the door frame. “There are some papers in the signature folder on your desk you have to sign for the bank and the chamber of commerce. I hope I filled in everything correctly. With the sobriquets you use and insist on being called I really sometimes forget what your proper first names are.” She chuckled and closed the door behind her.

Athos heaved a sigh. He hated paperwork and this would not change in a thousand years. At least he no longer had to use quill and ink anymore to get it all done.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They called d'Artagnan the next day and the boy was willing to meet them at the office. Working until late in the evening, they had collected a lot of information, though there was a great number of things they weren't willing to share with d'Artagnan at this point. As long as the young man had no recollection of whom they really dealt with, it was best to keep certain information from him. So once d'Artagnan had arrived at the office and they had scattered around the conference table, they reported what they had found so far and discussed the next moves, making sure that a lot of these plans involved the physical presence of d'Artagnan either at the office or at the side of at least one of them. All in all, sadly there was not really much they could do at this point, and most of the information was pretty vague. 

D'Artagnan told them that he had spoken with his mother. She had gone to see her sister in Marseille and decided to prolong her visit after d'Artagnan told her he was staying in Paris for a week or two. “She worries I might do something stupid,” d'Artagnan reported, which earned him a poignant raised-eyebrow stare from Athos who obviously thought the mother had every reason to think so. “I calmed her down and told her that I have found the security firm who sold father that stuff and that you are willing to investigate. I also told her that it seems you had nothing to do with father's death.” He fidgeted a little, seemingly nervous about what he was going to say next. “Erm, she asked if you are working with the police in Lupiac. The, uh, insurance says they need the police report and the expert opinion about what happened.” D'Artagnan abashedly ruffled his hair. He didn't tell them that the insurance was not willing to pay anything, neither for the total loss of the car, nor the life insurance his father had contracted, and that his mother really was in need of that money.

“We'll see to it. Aramis will contact the police station in Lupiac again later. If the need arises, one of us will go there personally and collect all necessary papers. And if you give me the insurance number, I will call and speak with them.” The tone and determination this was brought forward with left little imagination about who would be on the losing end after Athos' call.

“Do you have a job you have to return to in Lupiac?” Porthos asked.

“No. We only returned to France in January and I had a short-term contract with a local firm that ended two months ago. I did some traveling in the meantime and mostly helped father, but I haven't found a new job yet. Maybe I will apply for something here in Paris. In Gascony the jobs are few and far between, especially if you are not working in agriculture.”

“What is it you do for a living?” Aramis wanted to know. “And, if I may ask, where are you from, if not France?”

“Oh, I'm a native-born Frenchman, I was born in Gascony where my family hails from, but we lived in Quebec for years where my father helped to establish and operate my uncle's farm. After more than ten years abroad my parents longed for their home in Gascony, and I decided to return with them, too.”

_So, that explains that_ , Aramis though; that solved the mystery why they had been unable to locate the d'Artagnans in Gascony.

“I'm a trained IT specialist, though there are really not many firms in Gascony which require the likes of me. Most are into agriculture, and I'm under the impression that a lot of them still use ink and paper to organize their businesses,” d'Artagnan sighed. Rolling his eyes, he added, “I guess 90% still believe a firewall has something to do with biblical prophecies.” 

“Hey, IT specialist sounds good! Are you able to hack something? Police intranet, firm internals? That could really be helpful!”

“Porthos,” Athos glowered at the dark-skinned man, “this is not helping. I won't have you goading Charles into doing illegal things. You of all people should know the penalties it carries.”

“Yeah, ok, but it could really be helpful now and then.” Porthos glared back to the older man. “How about the boy helps me with my research today? Maybe he can show me a few tricks for finding things Google doesn't list in its search results.” What Porthos really meant was rather how to log into portals they had no access to, but he didn't deem it wise to say so. “What are your plans for today?” Porthos turned to d'Artagnan.

“Um, not much. I had planned to go to the Louvre today, but I can do it later or tomorrow. If you want, I can help you with your computer now.”

Porthos grinned broadly. Having the pup sitting right next to him for the next hours was a much more reassuring aspect than knowing he was running around in Paris and maybe stumbling into Rochefort.

“ _Messieurs,_ ” Athos announced, quickly glancing at his wristwatch, “do as you wish, I have two meetings and need to go. I might be back around 2 pm, but you don't have to wait with lunch for me. If you are going out, ping me, I can join you then on my way back.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Reluctantly they had let d'Artagnan depart after lunch to do some sightseeing, but there really had been no logical reason to make him stay any longer that day. Furthermore, they still had other assignments to see to beside their search for Rochefort, though naturally that case had top priority now. 

Aramis had made use of the d'Artagnan-free time in the afternoon and covered the boy's name on the glass door with a paper he had printed the words 'Storage Marsac Case' on. As further precaution he left the door wide open so no one could read anything on the door – or detect the engraved pauldron – unless they stepped inside the room. To hinder anyone from stepping into the room, he placed two empty cardboard boxes just behind the door frame. He hoped this was enough appropriate measures to prevent d'Artagnan from stumbling over his name already engraved in the spare office's door. They had been lucky so far that the boy had not noticed it while he had been working in the office that morning.

Charlène had watched Aramis' activity without comment, shaking her head now and then upon the strange behavior of the newest addition to the firm's family, but the latter had only smiled charmingly at her and given no explanation.

Late in the evening, after a security job at _Le Divan du Monde_ , a club in the _arrondissement des Buttes-Montmartre_ , the Inseparables sans d'Artagnan gathered at Athos' apartment for a nightcap and a last contemplation about where they stood at the moment.

Porthos stared at his mobile, waiting for a return message from d'Artagnan and the reassurement that the pup was okay, hopefully safely tucked away in his hotel bed by now.

Athos was lost in thought, watching the dark red liquid in his glass sloshing around as he swirled it in the goblet.

All of a sudden, Aramis laughed, silvery and lightly, slicing through the quietness.

The others looked at him, with no small amount of question in their eyes as to whether the marksman had gone mad.

“Might we inquire what's so funny?” Athos asked, his eyebrows almost reaching the hairline.

“You know, I just thought about when Richelieu finds out he is reborn. And he remembers who he was, Cardinal Jean-Armand de Richelieu.” Aramis laughed heartily, certain the others would join him.

Two set of eyes, however, simply stared at him, waiting for further explanation about what in God's name was so funny.

“Oh come on,” Armis breathed, trying to suck in air and speak at the same time, “don't you get it? Cardinal? Reborn?” Staring into the blank expressions of his friends, the marksman sighed. “He might not have been the most Christian of all men, but he was a cardinal and I'm firmly convinced that behind his hard shell and ruthless behavior he truly believed in the Catholic church's doctrines. What do you think his reaction will be, if he remembers who he was and realizes he was not resurrected, is not living at God's right side till eternity, but has been reborn now? I mean, even I had problems with it, and I only attended the seminary for a short time.”

The mirth visible on Aramis' face evoked a small smile from Athos, though the marksman's obsession with Richelieu still bothered the older man a little. Aramis would have a field day if he happened to be in the vicinity of Richelieu when he regained his memory. Should it really be the former First Minister of France they had seen on the TV screen. And should the man not yet already know who he had been before.

Porthos grinned. “Who knows, he might be utterly relieved about it. I for one think he had more prospect of burning in hell till kingdom come than anything else. And if you ask me, he knew it.” His phone chirped and he read the short message from d'Artagnan, relieved that the Gascon indeed was safely back in his hotel room, watching TV. “D'Artagnan is back in the hotel,” he shared this information with the others.

Simultaneous sighs revealed that all of them would sleep better this night, knowing the pup being safe for now.


	9. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' eyes sparkled with mirth. “You've gotta be kidding!”

Chapter 9

~Trouble~

“Athos”, Charlène announced the next morning, seeing her boss stepping into the office, “the fifth _arrondissement's_ new chief inspector called again, he wants to meet with you _immédiatement_ , and he sounded more than annoyed. He said if you want to poach in his territory you should at least have the decency to introduce yourself, but this obviously seems too much to ask of,” she looked down at her notes, “wanna-be _flics_ the likes of you. His words, not mine. It seems he has already heard about your business and I dare say not the best, unfortunately. Didn't you call him back yesterday?” 

Athos breathed a sigh and rolled his eyes. This day continued to get worse by the minute. “No, I didn't. Do you have his number?”

“I put it on your desk, _again_. You better call him immediately, he didn't sound too pleased to have to wait for your return call. And watch out, Athos, from what I heard he is new in Paris, coming from somewhere south, Pyrenees or so, and he's said to be an unrelenting man.”

Athos hummed his acceptance and walked over to his _bureau_ , allowing himself a tiny moment to close his eyes and take a couple of deep breaths there. This was the last thing he wanted to do right now, having to deal with authorities, but he knew if he didn't call back it would only make the matter worse. He slumped on his chair and snatched the paper from his desk, a small smile suddenly crawling over his face when he read what was written there. 

“That pleased, are you?” Aramis asked, leaning in the door.

Athos looked up. The marksman had a talent for creeping up on him that was disturbing. One day he would give Athos a real heart attack. “I need to call the new chief of the fifth _arrondissement's_ commissioner's office.” Athos smile grew. “I bet we’re going to have a lot of fun with the new chief inspector. The paper here says it's one Jean-Armand Peyrer.”

Aramis' eyes sparkled with mirth. “You've gotta be kidding!”

Athos shook his head, reaching for the phone. “That's what it says here. Let's go and see, I'd say.” After a short phone call with the chief inspector's secretary, Athos rose, checking his watch. “We have half an hour to show up there. Get Porthos.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When they reached the police station and signed in at reception, the receptionist made a short call, announcing their visit. Then they were ushered to the first floor, the police officer waving them along to a closed door at the end of the short corridor. “The chief inspector is awaiting you.” This said, the officer turned around and walked away. They had the uncomfortable feeling that their reputation was not held in highest esteem here in this police station. 

Athos walked to the door, a name plate at the side announcing it was the office of Chief Inspector Peyrer, and knocked.

“IN!”

“Now, that sounds friendly,” Aramis muttered, following the others into the office.

They lined up in front of the chief inspector's desk. If one would have been acquainted with the history of the Musketeers, and might per chance have witnessed this scene, he might have wept for melancholy upon seeing this heartbreakingly familiar scene. But there was no such witness here, and none of the men, before and behind the desk, seemed to be aware of the tableau they painted. Out of a centuries-old habit, the three snapped to attention when the commissioner raised his gaze.

The _commissaire_ squinted at the men in front of his desk, then rose to his full height and stepped sideways towards the window, where he started pacing back and forth without looking at the Inseparables. His voice, when he spoke, was sharp and cold. “Monsieur d'Autevielle. Presuming your two companions are working for your firm, too, it was wise to bring them along. I've heard of you and your so called security business. To make one point clear right from the start: I loathe poachers roaming in my territory. My predecessor already passed on vital information, warned me, to be precise. He complained lengthily about how you always interfered in his operations, how the three of you repeatedly crossed that fine line between legality and illegality and gave our men the run-around. I will not accept such things going on while I'm responsible for this district. For some strange reasons apparently there have never been any consequences to your repeated violation and breaches of law. This won't happen with me, believe me. The first time I catch any of you with only the whiff of illegality around him, you'll find yourself behind bars faster than you can blink. That includes any use of firearms whatsoever. I don't care if you have a license to carry or not. If I find one single person bleeding on the street, shot by any of you, and you can't plausibly explain that you shot in pure self-defense, you'll go to the brig instantly.”

Aramis wished his hands held his old hat, now more than ever in need for something he could knead. Dressing-downs from Tréville had never sat well with the marksman, and even if it was not their captain who was shouting at them, it was near the mark.

_Commissaire_ Peyrer stopped abruptly in his lecture, turning to face the men.

None of the Musketeers dared to turn his head and look to the chief inspector, whose reprimand had increased in volume the longer he had gone on. Instead, they all stared straight ahead at the French president's picture, hanging framed on the wall behind the commissioner's desk, the French and the Parisian flag right and left of it.

“Believe me, I have enough experience with the likes of you to know what makes them tick,” the chief inspector picked up his speech again, “Freelance, self-declared detectives, personal protectors who think they stand above the law, who think they can act without being bound by any law.” Peyrer stepped behind his desk, scrutinizing the men lined up before him. “Should even the slightest of word ever reach my ears that any of you have stepped out of line, crossed the border of legality, I will bring you to justice. If I hear of any shooting in my _arrondissement_ not initiated by my men, or complaints from residents being stalked by LaFère Security, or of brawls with Red Guards, I will so kick your ass that you won't be able to sit for a whole month.” 

An awkward silence settled over the room once the commissioner was done with his lecture. The Inseparables peered to and fro between themselves.

“What,” Porthos finally managed to drawl, “what do you mean by brawls with Red Guards?”

“You heard me, _Porthos_. Just because I'm no longer your commanding officer doesn't mean I cannot make your life a living hell.” Tréville leaned forward a little, eyes squinting. “Try me.”

A deafening silence settled over the room again and everyone just stared. And stared a little more. And blinked.

Athos was the first of the three standing in front of the desk to shake out of his stupor. He cleared his throat. “You remember? Since when?”

A smile crept over Tréville's face. “Several years. So I heard right, the Inseparables are back.” Tréville looked each of his men in the eye. “Last year at a police conference I overheard a colleague talking about LaFère Security in Paris, and the near wonders they are able to make happen. I investigated a little and once some familiar names popped up I applied for a transfer to Paris. It took awhile for it to go through, though I must say it was worth the wait because luckily I was transferred to the very same _arrondissement_ LaFère Security operates in.” Tréville gestured to the men to sit down, walking over to a small cabinet on the left wall. “Have a seat.”

Porthos dragged over a spare chair and they all seated themselves in front of the desk.

Tréville handed out small tumblers, filling them with a golden liquid from a bottle that had miraculously appeared in his hand.

Athos raised a brow disbelievingly. “Don't tell me this is the same brand?”

Tréville shook his head, the left corner of his mouth turned upwards in a light smirk. “Not exactly, but it will do. Cheers!” He raised his glass, nodding to each of the men and seated himself behind his desk. 

“It's damn good to see you all again. I wasn't sure if you knew of your former lives, but when I saw that there was no _de la Fère_ in your name, Athos, I guessed you had chosen the firm's name out of sentiment for the old times. Besides, it would have been too much coincidence with you all working together and not knowing.” He took a gulp from his glass, savoring the fine liquid for a moment on his tongue. “Where's d'Artagnan?” Tréville asked in a tone too casual to not catch Athos' attention.

“He's here in Paris, but he doesn't know yet about his past.” Athos tried to read the other man's expression, but their captain had always been even more versed than Athos at masking his emotions and sporting an expression of indifference even in the most threatening situations. “We only learned of his existence three days ago when he came here to murder me in revenge for his father's death.”

Tréville's brows almost met the hairline.

“Don't even ask,” Aramis threw in, “that's just the tip of the iceberg.”

“There's indeed more,” Athos picked up the report,” Rochefort is back and he is very obviously on a revenge campaign. He killed d'Artagnan's father and we are sure Alexandre d'Artagnan had to die to either lead d'Artagnan to us or bring d'Artagnan to Paris. I believe the latter, I'm sure Rochefort already knows a lot details of our lives and wanted to make sure that when he strikes, he has all of us together.”

“Rochefort is back?” Tréville leaned over the desk, his words dripping with disbelief.

“Yup, and if you ask me he's preparing for a second war.” Porthos scratched his beard. “The question is where and when is he going to strike. It's difficult to keep an eye on the pup while he isn't aware of the threat Rochefort poses.” 

“Rochefort knows that d'Artagnan hasn’t remembered his past, at least had not when they had met in Lupiac,” Aramis put in. “Maybe he wants to make sure the boy gets his memory back before he strikes, so every single one of us knows who is behind the attack and why. Rochefort liked to let his victims know why they were killed and by whom. He had that delusions of grandeur.” 

“He might or he might not,” Athos replied dryly, “and at this point we have no idea whether that’s true or not. ”

“Yeah, and it also means he would have to keep a real close eye on us to find out when exactly d'Artagnan gets his memory back,” Porthos stated. “Though I believe he _has_ a close eye on us anyway.”

“So, what we know is that he's most definitely already planning his next move, but we don't know where and when,” Aramis summarized their conversation.

“Dear God, do you have any information about him? Where he lives, who is working for him? Anything?” Tréville asked, having followed the arguments flying to and fro between the Inseparables without interrupting. 

“No, not much. He seems to have either a lot of people in his pay, or he is damn clever. As of now, he's nothing more than a ghost from the past. Only d'Artagnan has met him once,” Athos replied. “If Rochefort had not left a message for us with d'Artagnan and fit the description the boy gave us, we would have no idea at all who's behind this.”

Tréville rubbed his eyes. “Are there more? Have you met anyone else?”

“No, not yet, though Aramis firmly believes that Richelieu has been reborn as an English actor. And there--,” Athos was interrupted.

“It _is_ Richelieu, and you'll not convince me otherwise. I know what I saw,” Aramis hollered heatedly.

Porthos stretched his arm and patted Aramis on the shoulder. “We'll deal with him once this here is over. I swear, _mon ami_.”

Athos pointedly stared at Aramis a second or two before resuming his recital. “There's Anne, my ex-wife, who is incidentally my ex-wife in this life as well.” He raised his hand to stop Tréville from asking, the latter closing his mouth again though the surprised look remained on the captain's face. “As far as I know, she doesn't remember, she never gave any indication she had. You?” 

Tréville shook his head. “No, I must confess I never searched for anyone. When my memories came back, I had, at first, a hard time coming to terms with the situation. Then I just moved on. It never really occurred to me that others might have been reborn, too. Not until that conference last year in Nantes. I never met anyone else.”

“That reminds me,” Aramis interposed, “what do you know of the time after the war? Do you know what happened to d'Artagnan? I watched both Athos and Porthos die, and have a faint recollection of being hit by something shortly after Porthos died, but we don't yet know what happened to d'Artagnan. Or to anyone else,” Aramis mumbled, for he couldn't be sure if the former Minister of War himself had survived the battle or died that day, too.

Tréville's expression shifted. One who did not know him as well as the Inseparables wouldn't have seen much of a change in the older man's face, but the Inseparables could see the strain covering the captain's facial features now. He cleared his throat before answering. “I remember well, even after all these years. Too many men died on that bloody day on either side. I found you three on the field of death after the battle was over, lying close together. I have--”

Without a knock the door was thrown open and an officer rushed in, speaking even before he was completely inside. “Sir, reports of explosions and gunfire in the _Tuileries_ around the Louvre. Situation unclear so far, anti-terror units are activated and action forces are sealing off the place, reinforcements have been ordered from all surrounding _arrondissements_. No solid number of casualties yet, but this time of day the place usually is swamped with tourists, so we might have to expect the worst. I heard they are trying to evacuate the Louvre. Not yet sure if metro lines are closed down. There are unconfirmed reports of two or more presumed terrorists on the run.”

Tréville rose the moment the word anti-terror units came out of the officer's mouth, barking orders as soon as the young man had finished his report. “Call in any officers off duty, try to reach those on leave, they should hold themselves available. Anyone who is not on urgent assignment report to, who is responsible, Lafayette of the eighth? I'm sure there'll be someone from anti-terror in charge, we'll see when we get there. I'll drive with Danglard and Retancourt, only a skeleton crew remains, plus the colleagues coming in from off duty.” Tréville had yanked open his drawer and pulled on a bulletproof vest. “Go,” he shouted to the officer still waiting for orders, “we leave in five.” 

“Good gracious, let's hope it's something else and not what it sounds like,” Aramis muttered, watching Tréville make his way to the door. They all remembered too well the last time terror had hit Paris.

“Gentlemen, I have to go, pray to God this is not what it seems. I'll stay in contact, we need to sort this out with Rochefort.” Then Tréville was out of the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On their way back to the office they tried to get news on what had happened on the other side of the Seine, though only vague theories and bold rumors were available. Wailing sirens could be heard from all sides and now and then a police car or ambulance rushed by them. 

“I'll call d'Artagnan and ask where he is. He wanted to do some sightseeing today.” The worry was audible in every word, though Porthos was pretty sure that d'Artagnan had neither gone to visit the Louvre nor to promenade in the _Jardin de Tuileries_. But one never knew. When d'Artagnan didn't answer the call, Porthos left him a voice message and frowned. Then he typed an sms.

“What's wrong?” Athos asked.

Porthos shrugged his shoulders. “He is not answering, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, right?” He convinced neither Athos nor himself with the statement, but both men let the utterance hang there in the air between them.

After a couple more minutes of silent walking and worrying they reached the office and Aramis held the front door open for Porthos.

“I don't like this, why is he not answering the call?” Porthos looked at his mobile again, but no blinking light announced that a message had come in.

“Give him a few minutes, maybe he hasn't heard it or is busy with.... something,” Aramis answered lamely. He didn't want to worry, not with Rochefort on the loose and a possible terrorist attack looming. If there was still the chance the boy had simply not heard the ringing of his phone, Aramis would hang onto that possibility as long as he could. He stepped through the office door behind Athos just in time to see d'Artagnan rise from the visitor's couch.

“Hi,” the young man mumbled, “I hope I'm not coming amiss. I was nearby and thought I would drop in and see if you have new information.” D'Artagnan stopped speaking when he saw the expressions on the other men's faces. “Sorry, I'll go, I just thought--”

“Nonsense, you'll stay. Why didn’t you answer your phone? I tried to call you three times over the last ten minutes and sent two messages,” Porthos growled more angrily than he had intended to.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos saucer-eyed, frantically fumbling for his phone in his pockets. When the hands came up empty, everyone knew the answer even before d'Artagnan spoke. “Sorry, I think I forgot it in the hotel.”

“You should make sure that you have it with you all day,” Athos said. “It's important that we can always reach you or that you can call us.”

Aramis stepped up to d'Artagnan, putting his arm around the boy's shoulder. “You have not lost it, haven't you?”

D'Artagnan shook his head. “No, I'm pretty sure I didn't pocket it when I left this morning. I had to charge it after breakfast and forgot to unplug it before I went out.”

“Come, Charles,” Athos called from his office, “I'll update you, though there's not much more we've found out so far. Aramis, can you bring the police report and everything else Lupiac sent you?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis had a client meeting off-site later and Porthos had to finish another assignment and spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in his _bureau_. Athos asked d'Artagnan to stay with them in the office, at least unless it was clear whether or not there had yet been another terror attack in Paris. D'Artagnan said that was fine with him and busied himself with the technical stuff he was allowed to work on. At the end of the day all the firm’s computers had a new anti-virus program installed as well as an upgrade on the software.

At around five pm Athos received a call from Tréville on his mobile. Athos wondered only for the briefest of moments where Tréville got this mobile number from, but then let the point drop. The chief inspector certainly had his sources he could fall back on. 

Tréville informed them that currently it looked like it had been an attack performed by two amateurish wanna-be terrorists. The bombs they had detonated had not caused much harm, but the shooting had killed a couple of tourists and a good two dozen injured people had been rushed to the hospital. Two attackers had been found dead in the _Tuileries_ , shot by police officers, but some witnesses reported two other participants who had managed to escape so far. “I don't have time to meet with you again today, all hell has broken loose here. I'm up to my ears in work, but maybe we can meet tomorrow, though that depends on how things are developing. Once I have a minute I'll put one of my men on Rochefort. If he's in Paris we'll find him. Try to keep d'Artagnan close to you for the time being, I'm convinced Rochefort is capable of anything.”

Athos looked over to where d'Artgnan was joking with Charlène. Their secretary seemed to dote on d'Artagnan since he had solved some of her computer issues over the course of the afternoon and even managed to fix a problem with the fax machine. “He was here all afternoon and I intend to keep an eye on him further on. It's not easy to make plausible excuses for why he should spend all his spare time around us, especially if we are not working on his case. After all, we also have other commitments to see to. But we'll do our best.”

They agreed Tréville would call again once he could foresee when he had a few minutes to spare, and they hung up.

“Charles,” Athos called to the young man, “would you like to join us for dinner or do you have other plans for tonight? There's a nice restaurant down at the Seine and I owe you for all the IT work you did today.” Athos thought he saw the young man's eyes light up a little and wondered what in the world caused the young man to trust them so easily. What had Athos done to deserve such confidence?

“Oh. Um, yes, I think I would like to join you if you don't mind. I have nothing else to do,” d'Artagnan replied.

Athos' heart cramped when he saw the boy's eyes gleam with pleasure. Yet again, he had brought nothing but grief and trouble into d'Artagnan's life, and still the pup had nothing but confidence and unconditional trust in them. Athos wondered if he would be able to live up to it at least in this life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _immédiatement_ = immediately  
>  _commissaire_ = commissioner, chief inspector  
>  _flic_ = cop  
>  _bureau_ = office  
>  _arrondissement_ = district (Paris is divided into twenty _arrondissements municipaux_ /administrative districts)


	10. Save a life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing Aramis' face brought a spike of remembrance, and with crystal clarity Athos realized that modern day life must have slowed down his once oh so sharp mind, numbed his intuition, and sissified his senses. He instantly knew what he had missed registering, a split second before all hell broke loose, a split second too late.

Chapter 10

~Save a life~

Walking back to the car, Athos' eyes swept over the street, the buildings, the cars parked on the side, like he was wont to do, his mind registering every detail. He couldn't shrug off the feeling that something was not like it should be, but there was no threat to be seen, nothing out of the ordinary tugging at his mind's consciousness. The vicinity was almost deserted. He checked the surroundings again, but nothing unusual caught his eyes. The constant traffic noise from the Place de la Bastille was the only sound cutting through the quiet of the street. 

They had dropped off d'Artagnan at the hotel the night before and told the Gascon they would pick him up again the next morning, stating they were in need of his help during the day with some things, and d'Artagnan had agreed. Later in the afternoon none of them had assignments and they had offered to go sightseeing with the boy, if he wanted. 

Athos had walked over to the hotel to fetch d'Artagnan but turned around at the door upon seeing the young man leave the lift. Together they had started back toward the car, however, a few steps outside of the hotel the Gascon had mumbled something about his key and run back to the hotel. Relying on their pup to catch up with him again, Athos kept walking and was already only a few meters away from the car. He could see Porthos, who sat behind the steering wheel, turning his head to speak to Aramis, the latter occupying the seat behind the driver. Athos registered Aramis nodding and replying something to Porthos, then the marksman looked out of the window to where Athos was approaching.

Seeing Aramis' face brought a spike of remembrance, and with crystal clarity Athos realized that modern day life must have slowed down his once oh so sharp mind, numbed his intuition, and sissified his senses. He instantly knew what he had missed registering, a split second before all hell broke loose, a split second too late. Three things happened simultaneously: He heard a motorcycle clattering somewhere behind him, painfully loud as it accelerated; clear as the morning sky on a spring day he saw the street sign again before his inner eye, shining like a beacon in the night; and Aramis reacted to the shift of expression on Athos' face and was already halfway out of the side door.

“Ambush!” Athos cried out, yanking his pistol from his shoulder holster and swiveling around in one smooth motion, the pistol already up for aiming. Not immediately sure where or what was the threat, he wasted a fraction of precious time. In slow motion he saw d'Artagnan go down on the pavement in front of the hotel's entrance, eyes wide open in shock. The motorcycle picked up speed, already rounding the corner into Rue Jacques Cœur before Athos could aim properly at the rear wheel. Aramis rushed past Athos, brushing the older man's left side in his hurry to get to d'Artagnan, a split second after Athos had fired a bullet, causing him to stumble. 

Throwing off his jacket as he ran, Aramis sprinted across the small street, dropping to his knees beside d'Artagnan only a second after Athos had watched his shot miss its target, the motorcycle rounding the corner unhindered.

Porthos was already chasing after the vehicle, picking up speed nobody would have guessed a man of such stature and bulkiness would be capable of. Having grown up on the streets of Paris, Porthos had known without thinking twice that he would never stand a chance if he tried chasing the assailants with the car. A two-wheeled vehicle could move quickly through the Parisian traffic, a car could not. He'd been out of the car and on the run even before Athos' shot had rung through the street.

Athos stood grounded, motionless, unable to move, if only for a second or two. Then his feet set in motion and he dashed after Porthos, certain their marksman and healer would take care of d'Artagnan, and in a much more professional way than he or Porthos would be able to.

Athos fished his mobile out of his pocket while running. Rounding the corner he saw the motorcycle at the end of the small street, turning right onto Rue de Tournelles, Porthos close behind. Blindly Athos hit his quick dial and only a few, stretching-into-eternity seconds later Tréville's voice answered the call. “D'Artagnan has been shot, Rue Saint-Antoine near the Place de la Bastille, two riders on a motorcycle driving down Rue de Tournelles. It's Rochefort's doing. We need an ambulance.” Athos was rattling off the facts, clear and precise, but even he could hear the panic edging in his voice.

Aramis ripped his shirt from his body, having nothing else at hand right now to stop the blood flow spreading over d'Artagnan's chest. The boy looked up at him, eyes huge orbs, the mouth working to get out words that wouldn't come.

“Easy,” Aramis soothed d'Artagnan, swiping a few strands of hair out of the boy's face. “It's okay. I'm here. I'll look after you. Everything will be okay.“ But nothing was okay. Aramis had been paramedic for long enough to see that this was beyond 'okay'. There was too much blood rushing out of the young man too fast. Very soon the body would go into shock and start shutting down vital organs. Though there were no signs yet that the bullet or whatever it was that had brutally pierced the young man's skin, had ruptured the lungs, the wound was too close to the heart for Aramis' liking. Very likely, if not the heart itself, then one of the main arteries had been hit. In blank despair Aramis pressed his folded shirt to the wound, striving to stop the blood flow, mumbling soothing words to the young Gascon.

Athos stepped beside them and dropped to his knees.

“Call the ambulance, hurry!” Aramis shouted, belatedly realizing that Athos was already speaking into his mobile, passing on d'Artagnan's location, current condition and presumed injuries. A calming hand settled on Aramis' shoulder.

D'Artagnan's eyes shut and neither Aramis nor Athos could tell if the boy had only closed them or had fallen unconscious, couldn't even tell if he was still breathing. Never, in all the years Aramis had worked as paramedic, had he been anything other than logical, calm and determined as he worked on an injured body. Now he was panicking.

He grabbed Athos' hand, yanking it from his shoulder, and pressed it on the makeshift bandage. “Press,” he ordered, getting up and stepping over the body to come down on the boy's other side. Aramis reached for d'Artagnan's neck to feel the pulse, only to bring his head down over the boy's mouth a moment later. With Athos pressing the makeshift bandage on d'Artagnan's chest, it was hard to see whether it still rose or not. When Aramis felt a whiff of air brush his bearded jaw, he let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. His fingers found a pulse rate. It was not strong, it was not reassuring, but it was still there. Aramis kept his fingers on the neck, silently counting. The pulse rate increased though Aramis had problems feeling it at all. “Shit,” he hissed, “shit, shit!”

“What?” Athos asked, even more worried now by the other man's behavior. Their marksman had never been someone who tended to panic, however grave their situation had been.

Aramis had his head bent again over the Gason's face, coming up now in a jumpy motion. “He's going into shock. Where's the damned ambulance?” Aramis pressed his fingers a little deeper, the pulse now only a faint flutter against the skin but still increasing. Looking up and around, he saw Porthos approaching. “Porthos, grab his feet and hold them up!”

Porthos quickened his steps, shaking his head in Athos' direction. “Lost them on Rue de Tournelles but I have the plate numbers. What is with him?” He reached down and grabbed d'Artagnan's ankles, carefully lifting them up. “Aramis?” he asked again, when no answer came from their paramedic.

“He's going into shock, could be phase three already,” Aramis replied in a flat voice, abandoning d'Artagnan's neck to rise beside Porthos. “Hold his feet up as far as you can. Do we have water? Anything isotonic? I need something!” He gauged the distance between him and their car, obviously debating if he should sprint over and desert d'Artagnan if only for the shortest possible time. “Porthos, give me your jacket!” The marksman yanked at the fabric, unaware for a moment that Porthos had both hands occupied holding d'Artagnan's feet. Aramis abandoned the effort and ran over to where he had dropped his jacket earlier, spreading it over the Gascon a moment later.

Aramis' raised voice and frantic movements told the other two enough about d'Artagnan's actual condition. It was more than serious.

“Athos, keep pressing! Is he still breathing?” Aramis knelt down again to feel for the breathing, which was flat and too fast. The medic raked blood-covered fingers through his hair, his distress almost palpable. He looked up, right into the eyes of their leader. “Do we have anything in the car I can give him?” His tone was nothing but pleading. Before Athos could respond, Aramis' head spun back to d'Artagnan. “I can't feel pulse anymore!”

Athos noticed the marksman's fingers shake where he pressed them deep into the skin on d'Artagnan's throat. Looking up, he could see Aramis staring at the boy's blood-covered chest, the medic hesitantly bringing his hands down beside the shirt the older man still pressed against the wound. Aramis' raised his eyes until he stared at Athos with a look that plumbed his very soul. Then the medic started with the cardiac massage, not once leaving the former _comte's_ gaze.

“Aramis –,” Athos rasped, trailing off when he heard sirens approaching. As a unit, they turned their heads to watch an ambulance turning in from the Place de la Bastille, halting with squealing tires. A moment later two paramedics approached them, a third climbing out of the driver's seat.

Aramis started reporting on d'Artagnan's condition the moment the men were within earshot, the marksman's hands not once losing the beat in proceeding with CPR.

Athos and Porthos were released from their current tasks, stepping back to let the paramedics do their work. Both men's expressions showed every bit of the tension that radiated from them. The fear of losing d'Artagnan before they had really gotten him back was overwhelming.

“We have a pulse again,” one of the paramedics stated, gently clasping Aramis' hands, trying to remove them from d'Artagnan.

“Sir,” the other paramedic addressed Aramis, “I'll take over now, please step back and let us do our work.”

“I'm a paramedic myself, I know what I'm doing,” the marksman snapped at the man, standing his ground.

“ _Monsieur_ , please,” the man tried again, looking at Athos for help.

“Aramis.” Athos stepped over to his friend, putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Let them do their work, they are as capable of helping d'Artagnan as you are.”

Another ambulance skidded to halt behind the first one, two more paramedics joining their colleagues. Shortly behind, a police car turned into the street, blocking the entrance for any further vehicles.

“Tréville made a good job of it,” Athos stated, letting go of Aramis who finally seemed to have calmed down enough to let the paramedics do their work alone.

Aramis' eyes never left the young Gascon, but his focus turned towards the other men now. “You didn't catch them?” he asked Porthos.

The big man shook his head. “No, once they were on Rue de Tournelle they could hit the gas. But I memorized the plate numbers, already forwarded it to Tréville.”

“Did you see who it was? Did any of you recognize them?”

“No. But I know who is behind it,” Athos replied stony-faced. His gaze shifted to d'Artagnan, who had been moved to a stretcher, infusions attached to his now very small looking body, a rescue blanket wrapped around him. He looked as if sleeping, but Athos knew it was an illusion. The face was too pale, the eyes sunken too deep, the expression contorted. The older man willed his eyes away from his former protégé, addressing his brothers. “Rochefort. I should have known it would be here. I should have seen it!”

“I believe you that Rochefort is behind this. But how in the world could we have known where and when he would strike?” Aramis asked, for just a moment looking away from the medical treatment their young brother received to turn his gaze on Athos. Just the day prior they had discussed this, the where and when of Rochefort's next strike. “I thought we still had more time,” the marksman muttered, his eyes returning to d'Artagnan.

“Because I should have seen it earlier. It's all here in front of my eyes.”

Porthos looked around, taking in the small street, the houses, the cars. “Why? How?”

“Look, there's the Place de la Bastille.” Athos pointed to the end of Rue Saint-Antoine only about a hundred meters away, the street sign visible from where they stood. “If my mind isn’t playing tricks on me, it's only a couple of meters from here where the scaffold stood in the inner courtyard. When we rescued Constance, we left through the archway that must have stood a couple of meters left from here, facing towards Boulevard Henri IV. And there, where you can see a branch of Crédit Mutuel?” Athos pointed to one of the houses opposite them, a few meters away from where their car was parked. “That's roughly where Aramis was kept in the dungeons. Here is where Rochefort's downfall began. We snatched Constance from under his nose, just when he thought he had gained the upper hand, just when he thought he had everything under control. Anne helped Aramis escape and Tréville gravely offended Rochefort right before killing some of his Red Guards and fleeing with us. I should have seen this would be where he was going to strike first. I should have seen that d'Artagnan was not safe here. It's my fault the boy lies here now, fighting for his life.” His voice almost failed on the last words.

Porthos grabbed Athos' arm, seeking the other's attention. “If it is anyone's fault, then it's Rochefort's, and his alone. Don't blame yourself for this. Neither Aramis nor I saw this context either.” Porthos' eyes followed d'Artagnan being transported to the ambulance, Aramis trailing behind the stretcher. “D'Artagnan will live and we will destroy Rochefort, like we did before.”

Athos started moving to follow the paramedics to the ambulance, turning to Porthos. “Still, I should have seen it. I failed him once more.”

Porthos let go of Athos but followed close behind him.

Aramis watched until d'Artagnan was in the back of the ambulance, then turned towards his brothers. “I'll drive with him to the hospital. You go and catch those bastards.”

Athos shrugged out of his suit coat. “Here, put this on.” He held the blazer out to Aramis who seemed to have forgotten that he only wore a sleeveless undershirt, both his shirt and jacket lying blood-stained and forgotten on the ground where d'Artagnan had been treated. Aramis nodded and put on the coat. 

Another police car turned in from the Place de la Bastille, stopping behind the first. The side door opened even before the car had come to a full standstill and Tréville stepped out of the car, hurrying towards them. “How is he?”

“They stabilized him, but he lost a lot of blood and went into shock. I’m going with them,” Aramis answered tonelessly, then nodded to the chief inspector and climbed into the ambulance.

“Keep us informed,” Porthos hollered before one of the paramedics closed the door. It had been unnecessary request, and Porthos knew it, but he hadn't been able to restrain from shouting it nonetheless.

Athos repeated to Tréville what he had said earlier to the others, the older man nodding his consent.

“You're right. It's not easy to imagine now, too much has changed meanwhile, but here where we stand must be the place where the outer wall of the Bastille ran along.” Tréville looked to and fro. “Yes, there was the grand gate.” He shook his head. “But none of us could have prevented this, Athos. We don't know what's going on in Rochefort's mind and where he will strike next. There are too many conditions we have to consider. This is crazy,” Tréville looked from Athos to Porthos. “As if I wouldn't have enough on my plate right now, I also have to deal with Rochefort again.”

A policeman came over, speaking into his radio. “Chief inspector, the motorcycle was located and stopped. Both men are arrested, though one of them was injured during the arrest, as well as one police officer.” The policeman answered something into his radio, then turned to Tréville again to await further orders.

“Ensure they are brought to my commissariat, I'll deal with them. Thank you, officer.” Tréville turned to Athos. “I presume you two will want to come along?”

Athos nodded and they began to move towards their cars just as the ambulance with d'Artagnan and Aramis pulled away with sirens wailing and blue lights flashing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In the end, the interrogation of the two boys the police had caught brought close to nil, other than an insight into the dullness of today's juvenile wanna-be criminals. Both boys, interrogated separately, claimed they had received orders from an unknown man via their mobiles, and both conveniently had not thought of deleting these mails after reading. As expected though, a quick investigation showed that the messages had been sent from a prepaid mobile, most likely dumped into a river or elsewhere by now. The boys had received an envelope they had been ordered to pick up somewhere near the _Cimetière du Père Lachaise_ , filled with a fistful of Euros for their effort, the address of the hotel and a picture of d'Artagnan. As it turned out when sifting through one of the boy's personal belongings, a picture of damn good quality and shot from close-up. A fact that left some uneasiness with Athos and the others. The orders had been short and crisp: Kill the boy, but make it happen in the vicinity of the hotel. The saved mails on the boys' mobiles were enough evidence to bring charges against them for attempted murder, though Tréville pointed out that Rochefort certainly had known of the likelihood that these two were too inexperienced to really manage killing d'Artagnan. For Rochefort it might have been enough for now to see the Gascon injured and the Inseparables panicking. 

That brought another thought to Athos' mind. Had they been monitored? Had Rochefort been there to see for himself how the Inseparables had to watch d'Artagnan go down, bleeding to death? “We should have searched the area more closely for Rochefort immediately after. I can't shrug off the feeling that he was there to watch it all,” Athos voiced his concern later when they sat together in Tréville's office.

“Well, that's too late now, but I deem him clever enough that he hid somewhere where we might not have spotted him anyway,” Tréville replied. “I'll have two men search the area the boys described behind _Père Lachaise_ and look through the CCTV in the vicinity. I need the prosecutor's consent to get data from the mobile network operator, but that should not be a problem.”

Athos checked his mobile, but no message from Aramis had arrived. He typed a short message to the marksman, addressing the captain while he did so. “Any chance you can manage to let us have a look at the CCTV footage, too? Or the data from the mobile communication provider?” 

Tréville looked to Athos and Porthos for a long moment. “I'll see what I can do.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan had been rushed through A&E right into surgery, where Aramis was denied access. He paced now in front of a row of vacant seats, every so often shooting a look towards the closed doors separating him from the surgery area. A nurse came by some indefinite time later and told him that d'Artagnan was still undergoing surgery, but she would let Aramis know as soon as the boy was transferred to ICU. 

“Get yourself a coffee, _Monsieur_ ,” she said kindly, “I'm sure he will be okay. The doctors are really good in saving lives. And maybe you want to wash off, there's a restroom just down the corridor,” she added with a look at Aramis' hands that were still bloody from his attempts to save d'Artagnan's life. 

Aramis looked down to her, smiling lightly for the first time in what seemed like hours. “Thank you, _infirmière_ , maybe you are right. It's just...” _that we already let him down once before_ , Aramis thought, but didn't say it. Instead he finished, “It's just hard to wait, not knowing the outcome.” 

The nurse smiled at him and patted his arm in a comforting way, “I'll let you know as soon as I get information. Trust me. I'll come and get you the moment he is in ICU, then you can take a quick look.” 

The nurse left and Aramis walked down the corridor to the restroom. He took his time to thoroughly wash away the signs of his struggle for the Gascon's survival, and then he took some more time to splash cold water on his face and stare at his reflection in the mirror. Leaving the restroom again after a while, he dragged his feet towards the other end of the corridor where the coffee machine was. His phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket. It was a message from Athos. 

_Interrogating the two assailants, no useful hints. How's d'Artagnan?_

Aramis typed a quick reply, then got himself a coffee, walked back to the row of seats and slumped down on one of them. He hated waiting, especially in hospitals. He rested his head on the back of the chair and his eyes caught on the cross, hanging on the opposite wall. It was neither a modern nor a plain one. It was one of those that displayed the tortured body of Christ nailed to the cross, with a gaunt, maltreated body and a face that looked gracious and merciful even in death. Aramis carefully put his coffee cup down on the stool beside him. He bowed his head, raking his fingers through his hair, elbows braced on the knees. With his head propped up between his hands he closed his eyes. Suddenly he knew what he could do to bridge the time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His phone pinged and Athos checked the return message from Aramis. 

_Still in surgery. Don't know anything. Will call you as soon as he's out._

Looking up again, Athos shook his head slightly, conveying to the others that there were still no news about d'Artagnan. “Still in surgery.” 

“Right,” Tréville said, “I'll get things going here. What I can offer you is the address of the place where Rochefort left his message. No one can stop you from going there and look around, and if you start making inquiries in your capacity as private investigators, that's none of the police's business, not unless you start harassing people. I'll see to that you get a copy of the mobile data, once I get hold of it. I can't promise about CCTV footage, but since both of you _do_ know what Rochefort looks like and my men don't, that's as good a reason as any why you should join the responsible police officer once he starts going through the material. I'll let you know as soon as I have things together. “ 

Porthos rose. “I think we'll start where the envelope was dropped, presuming your men are questioning people around the hotel now?” 

Tréville nodded. “I don't think that will lead anywhere. We have the two boys and I don't think Rochefort would be careless enough to show up where he could be seen. But one never knows. Let's wait for the results.” 

“I'll let you know about d'Artagnan as soon as we have new information. Thanks, captain,” Athos nodded towards his former commanding officer. Without Tréville's swift intervention they might not have been so lucky with catching the two assailants. Or getting d'Artagnan to the hospital in time to hopefully save his life. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos silently let himself into the room the nurse had ushered him to. There was only a muted light illuminating the room, a bed on either side, but d'Artagnan was the room's only occupant. The boy lay in bed, eyes closed, a tube attached to his right arm. On the right side of the bed, Aramis sat in a chair. The marksman had his eyes closed, too, though it was hard for Athos to make out if the man slept or simply rested with his eyes closed. What he could make out, though, was that Aramis looked exhausted.

When Athos had rushed into the ICU, asking to be shown to d'Artagnan, his heart had almost stopped beating when the nurse had shaken her head, telling him that Monsieur d'Artagnan was not here anymore. She must have realized her wrong choice of words the moment she saw Athos eyes widen and the face go pale. “Sorry, Monsieur, he was transferred to the ward upstairs, there was no more need to keep him here in ICU. He is on floor 4. Ask there for the room number.” 

Athos had slowly released his breath and turned around, taking his time making his way up to the next floor. His heart rate was still increased, and not from climbing stairs, when he had finally been shown to the right room. Now he walked slowly over to the bed, looking down at the pale face of d'Artagnan. 

The boy stirred and opened his eyes, surprised for a moment to see it was not a nurse approaching his bed. “Athos,” d'Artagnan whispered, a smile lighting up his pale face. 

Athos stilled in his movement, shocked and hardly daring to breathe. He looked over to Aramis. 

The marksman had opened his eyes upon hearing d'Artagnan speak and now grinned at Athos, nodding his head slightly. 

D'Artagnan lifted his arm, reaching out to Athos but abandoned the effort, the boy's face contorting in pain when the movement pulled the stitches in his side. 

Athos rushed forward and gripped the young man's arm with both hands, seating himself on the side of the bed. “D'Artagnan,” was all he was able to say, still not trusting that his ears had heard right. 

“Athos, it's so good to see you. I can't---,” d'Artagnan broke off, swallowing, a shimmer of tears collecting in his eyes. 

Aramis put a calming hand on the boy's shoulder. “There will be enough time to talk when you feel better, pup, now you need to recover. Save your words for later.” He looked over to Athos, smiling, “For now it's enough that Athos knows you're back.” 

Athos increased the pressure on the Gascon's arm slightly, putting as much affection into the gesture as he dared. “I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, it was my fault. Everything.” His voice threatened to fail with the sudden rush of emotions trying to escape. He struggled to swallow, but it was hard with his mouth suddenly as dry as the dust-covered plains south of Kandahar. Turning to Aramis, he added, “How? When?” 

“Thankfully, the nurses let me stay at his side once he was transferred to the recovery room. When he came to from anesthesia and saw me, his first words were, 'My god, Aramis, you're alive. Where are the others?' You can imagine my astonishment. However, when he saw the technical equipment surrounding him, he kind of experienced a small nervous breakdown and it took him a moment to calm down enough that I could explain the situation to him.” Aramis looked down fondly at d'Artagnan. “He came to terms with the new situation strikingly fast, though I fear a part of the quick acceptance is owed to the medication still running through his veins. Could very well be the truth will hit him harder once he is off the morphine,” Aramis added softly. 

Athos could hear something in Aramis' voice that made him listen closer. He was sure there was more behind the marksman's words than met the ear. 

“Where is Porthos? Is he okay?” d'Artagnan interrupted, a slight panic lingering in the boy's voice. 

“Don't worry, he's alright and will come by later. He is tracking some clues we got from the two assailants.” Athos turned to Aramis. “Neither the interrogation nor questioning of witnesses brought much, but Porthos is going to revive some of his old connections.” 

The glare accompanying Athos' words showed Aramis what the former _comte_ thought of that, but he didn't comment on it further. 

“Is it Rochefort? I mean,” d'Artagnan lowered his gaze and made an agitated movement with his hand towards his chest, ”this. Has it to do with Rochefort?” 

“Yes, we are sure of that, though we have no judicially tenable proof yet. It's only a matter of time until we'll have tracked him down, though. Do not concern yourself with it now,” Athos added, his gaze shifting to Aramis. “Do you have a minute?” He gestured with his head towards the door. 

“I'll be right back,” Aramis said to d'Artagnan, rising from the chair and lightly touching the boy's shoulder, “close your eyes and try to sleep.” 

“I'll come by later again. Try to rest and recover.” Athos' fingers twitched with a desire to stroke through the boy's hair, like one would do with an ill child. It would have soothed his soul, Athos was sure of that, but he was also certain that d'Artagnan wouldn't respond well to such a gesture, stubborn as he was. Instead, Athos settled for grabbing and squeezing his former protégé's arm once more. “I'm glad you're back, brother,” he added in a low voice, then followed Aramis out of the room. 

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Athos turned to Aramis. “How is he? How serious are his injuries?” 

“He was very lucky. He was stabbed by the way, not shot. The knife went deep, but miraculously no vital organs were perforated. Apparently the knife was twisted inside, that's what caused the most harm. He lost a lot of blood, you saw that, but they transfused some units of blood. Quite a lot, actually. A high concentration of acetylsalicylic acid was found in his circulatory system, maybe he took some headache pills this morning. I don't know, but that's why he lost so much blood so fast. The doctor says he can be released from the hospital within the next two or three days, depending on his recovery. They have to monitor the acetylsalicylic acid concentration and blood levels though first.” 

“That's good news,” Athos sighed, then his piercing look settled on the marksman's face. “How did he respond to getting his memories back?” 

Aramis hesitated for a moment, his gaze swiping past Athos along the corridor, avoiding the other man's eyes. “He was shocked and panicked, ripped out the IV and tried to climb out of bed. The nurse intended to give him a sedative, despite him just coming out of anesthesia, but I managed to talk her out of it and calm the boy.” Aramis darted a quick glance at the other man, assessing his reaction. “He cried,” Aramis continued in a softer voice. “I didn't exactly get out of him what happened to him after--, you know, we got separated from him and died. What happened to him after the battle. I'm sure he will tell us once he is more stable.” 

What Aramis didn't mention was that he, too, had shed a few tears upon seeing the grief on the boy's face. Watching d'Artagnan shake with emotions, doubled by the after-effect of the narcotics, seeing the sorrow and dawning comprehension in the young man's eyes had been hard and heart-rending. It was just like Porthos had anticipated, and they didn't yet know if d'Artagnan had returned to Constance or not. From the hiccuped scraps of words the boy had uttered, Aramis had not been able to get an idea of what had happened in the past. 

Athos' face was carved in stone, though Aramis could see the muscles flex where the jaw clenched. Athos would have to deal with the pup later, now Aramis was not willing to load more guilt on Athos' soul, even though he knew Athos was neither responsible for the boy being stabbed nor for what had happened on the battlefields in 1643. But Aramis also knew the former _comte_ had a different perspective on these things. He grabbed Athos' shoulder, prompting the other man to turn his gaze towards the marksman. “Talk to the boy later when he is more himself. No matter what has happened, today or in the past, he is happy to see you again. He might need a little time, but he'll be okay. Believe me.” 

They stared at each other for a couple of seconds, and Aramis could see the inner turmoil raging like a storm in the other man's eyes. Finally, Athos nodded. “Very well. We'll come by again later, Porthos wants to see the pup as well. I don't want him to lie here on his own, can you stay for another hour or two? We can change shifts later, with Rochefort on the loose I'm not risking anything.” 

“I'll stay by his side, don't worry. Though I would feel better if I had a weapon with me. Should Rochefort show up here, I'd like to be able to shoot him the moment he sets foot in the room.” 

“I'll speak with Tréville, I’m sure he can get a permission for us to carry arms in here or maybe he can detail an officer to guard d'Artagnan.” _In addition to one of us_ , Athos thought; none of the Inseparables would leave the boy's life in the hands of anyone else anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea of emergency treatment, basic life support or medicine in general. My insufficient knowledge narrows down to what little I remember from decades-old first aid courses and what I found on Google. Sorry.


	11. Something That You Can't Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Captain?” Aramis asked cautiously, “There is still the issue with what you wanted to tell us. You know what happened to d'Artagnan, don't you? He refuses to speak about it.”

Chapter 11  


~Something That You Can't Forget~

D'Artagnan was released from hospital three days later. The Inseparables were as happy about it as was the young man, though maybe for slightly different reasons. The nurses and the doctors, Athos mused, probably were more than delighted to see d'Artagnan – and his brothers – leave. Not because the young man had been a demanding patient, it was more the 24-hour guard that had occupied the Gascon's room over the last days. Often it had been more than one of the Musketeers that had stayed at d'Artagnan's side, and on one day a police officer had guarded the room for a couple of hours courtesy of Tréville. However, Athos had to admit, Aramis had done everything in his charming power to keep the Inseparables on good terms with the female nurses and had largely succeeded. 

It would have been a short metro ride from the hospital to Athos' apartment, but the older man insisted on taking his car and they spent three-quarters of an hour stuck in traffic. D'Artagnan didn't protest, a sign that he either still hurt more than he was willing to admit or that he was frightened of another attack in public. Knowing the pup from back in time, Athos believed the former; the boy had always tried to make light of his injuries or simply denied he was hurt at all. “You'll be staying with me for as long as it takes to sort this out with Rochefort. It's too dangerous for you to return to the hotel. Besides, we're going to need you around anyway, we have lots of things to do.” Athos darted a quick glance at the young man beside him.

“Umh, do I have a say in this?” d'Artagnan asked, though it was more for form's sake. His former captain's commanding tone left few choices.

“No.” Athos returned his gaze to the Gascon, slumped in the passenger seat. He was still nursing his left side, though Athos guessed the boy was not aware of doing so. The wound had healed well and with one or two weeks of rest he should be as good as new. Not that this was a calming thought to Athos; he still deeply regretted having been so unobservant which, as a result, had caused such harm to d'Artagnan. 

At the apartment, Athos showed the boy the guest room and less than ten minutes later Porthos arrived with d'Artagnan's travel bag from the hotel. 

D'Artagnan raised his brow. “Where did you get that from? Did they just let you enter my room and pack my belongings?” he demanded to know.

“Well, technically speaking, yes,” Porthos answered, in no way looking guilty for it, setting down the bag on the bed. 

When no explanation followed Porthos' sparse reply, d'Artagnan shook his head and started unpacking. “I'd rather have stayed in the hotel,” he mumbled, loud enough that the others could hear, but none of them commented his grumbling.

Athos gave d'Artagnan a quick explanation where he could find everything and ordered him to rest while he and Porthos would go back to the office. “You have all our numbers. Call if you need anything. We can order takeaway later, but if you're hungry in the meantime, the fridge is full. Well, half full, to be honest, but you also can order something. Just stay here and rest, that's all I ask. Tomorrow you can come along to the office, if you feel like it.” 

D'Artagnan glared at Athos for the sake of it, but silently was glad he could just stretch out on the sofa and didn't have to go anywhere. He would never admit it to anyone, but his side still hurt and the stitches tugged just enough to be uncomfortable. As soon as Athos and Porthos were out the door he would swallow a couple of pain relievers and not move from that sofa again until he had to. He switched on the TV and waved towards the others that they were released from babysitting duty. There was another reason he was glad that he would be alone all afternoon and have time to sort his thoughts, but that was something he didn't even want to admit to himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Ok, let's see what we have,” Aramis said, sitting at the conference table with pictures and reports he had spread out while the others had made sure that d'Artagnan arrived safely at Athos' home. 

They talked almost an hour about what information they had gathered so far, only to realize that it was close to nothing, once again. At least nothing that would bring them any nearer to the question of where Rochefort was hiding and what his next steps would be. They had found hints and traces and a handful of people who had dealt with him, but none of them could or were willing to share information about the whereabouts of Rochefort. Some blurred pictures they had managed to get hold of through CCTV footage confirmed that their old foe still looked exactly like he had done in the old times. They discussed this and that without coming to a conclusion about what to do next. No one wanted to say it aloud, but at this point all they could do was wait until Rochefort made his next move. 

A knock on the door announced Charlène who showed Tréville into the conference room.

“Thank you, Charlène. Have a seat, captain, what brings you here?” Athos asked.

“I was on my way back from a crime scene and thought I might as well drop in and see how far you are with Rochefort.” Tréville didn't take the seat offered to him but strolled over to the big window facing Rue Dante, looking outside.

“Not very far, unfortunately,” Porthos replied. “The man seems to be a phantom, there's hardly any information on him, what little we found is only vague. I guess you had more access to sensitive information. We need something we can work with!”

Tréville shook his head. “One of my men is working on Rochefort, but so far nothing important has shown up, no address, no connections. Nothing more, I'd guess, than the little information you already have, but you'll receive a report from my officer this afternoon. Sooner or later something will come up, I'm certain of it. How is d'Artagnan?”

“Released from hospital, he's staying with me for the time being. I think he's doing remarkably well for a man who was stabbed four days ago, though he clearly is still in pain, even if he thinks we don't notice.”

“Stubborn Gascon,” Tréville muttered, though his thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. 

“Captain?” Aramis asked cautiously, “There is still the issue with what you wanted to tell us. You know what happened to d'Artagnan, don't you? He refuses to speak about it. We didn't push him and maybe he thinks he's being clever with how he's avoiding the theme, but it's clear that he doesn't want to talk about it.”

Tréville didn't answer, only kept staring out of the window. 

“We'll ask him anyway, you know, when he is more stable and this is over, but it would be good for us to know what to expect. I told you he didn't respond too well once he started to remember. Just a hint if he died or survived the battle would be helpful,” Aramis added.

Tréville sighed deeply. Still refusing to face them, he uttered, “I don't know what happened to him, and that's the truth. I walked over the battlefield that day, searching for my men. I found too many dead, and I found you three. Whom I didn't find was d'Artagnan.” Tréville looked back to the men sitting around the conference table, regarding each of them. “It turned out that I had misjudged my condition, I must have fainted while searching the grounds. I woke up in the tents of the wounded, shaking with fever and pain. Some wounds had become infected and two needed stitches. I was confined to the sick bed for two days. During that time I ordered every man who was still able to walk to search the grounds for survivors. Those amongst them who were Musketeers I asked to look out for d'Artagnan in particular. The next day Etienne came to me. He reported that he had met d'Artagnan directly after the battle was over, searching for you three. Unfortunately, Etienne already knew of your deaths, seems he had fought near you and saw you fall. Or found you later, I can't remember what exactly he said. Alas, he told d'Artagnan so. According to Etienne, the boy looked ailing but stable and could walk on his own, so Etienne thought his injuries were not too grave and he went on in his search for survivors that day. He didn't think about that encounter until the moment he heard my order to especially look for d'Artagnan, too. That's when he came to report to me.” Tréville hesitated, swallowing hard before he continued, “D'Artagnan never showed up again. He was found neither in the tents of the wounded nor on the battlefield.”

After Tréville's report, no one spoke for a while, each of them mulling over what the captain had disclosed.

“There's more, right? Something you are not telling us. What is it?” Athos asked, cutting through the quiet. His piercing gaze rested unyieldingly on the captain's face. 

Tréville stared back sternly for a moment, then his features softened. He sighed before he picked up his report again. “There was an almost uncountable number of soldiers who had died that day, but I tried to look at as many of them as possible before they were buried. To see if d'Artagnan was amongst them, or which of my Musketeers at all. Many of the surviving men knew d'Artagnan, had known you all. Many of them would have been able to identify d'Artagnan had they seen him amongst the dead. At least, if--, well, often there was not much left to identify the soldiers. But when Etienne had met d'Artagnan, he seemed to be in a fairly sound condition, so there was no reason why he should have been maimed, why he shouldn't have been identifiable.” Tréville paused, obviously reliving the hell the grounds of the dead must have been, captured back in time with his thoughts. “He never returned to Paris or Constance again though, at least not as far as I was informed. I guess his wounds must've been more severe than Etienne originally thought...,“ Tréville trailed off, his look distant and troubled.

“Or?”

Tréville's gaze shifted to Athos, bearing an expression that told the other man it would have been better not to ask. “There was talk of retreating Spanish and Walloon soldiers taking French noblemen hostage on their way back home. As you know it was a widespread custom these days to take such prisoners of war to demand high payments for ransom afterwards. The Spanish 11th infantry regiment, in particular, vehemently denied the honorable capitulation the _duc_ d'Enghien offered. Blessedly, _comandante_ de Melo finally accepted the offer and the remaining _tercio_ was allowed to leave the field with deployed flags and weapons and return to their home country. I'm certain they had no small number of French captives with them that day.” Tréville swallowed hard, feeling the other men's gazes resting on him. 

“D'Artagnan was no nobleman, even a Spanish soldier must have seen that he bore no such insignia or expensive armor! Anyone could have seen there was no ransom to be demanded for him, from no one,” Aramis argued, more pleading that convinced. “Even though I'm sure Constance would have tried,” he added softly.

Tréville slowly turned his head and looked at the marksman. “But he was a Musketeer. The king's elite regiment was known far and wide for hiring sons of nobility, for being predominantly composed of French nobility.” There was something else lingering in the captain's words, and it was audible to everyone. “I have no idea what happened to him. All I can tell you is that to my knowledge he never returned to Paris or Constance.”

“And what are you _not_ telling us?” Athos asked after a second or two, his voice like a dagger scratching over glass, sharp and raspy, cutting through the tension in the room.

The commissioner's gaze returned to Athos. A silent battle was fought between the two, storms of pure emotion and guilt raging in both men's eyes, until Tréville averted his gaze. He cleared his throat. “There were also rumors that the Spanish troops brought back French captives, soldiers as well as civilians, to sell them as galley slaves or to send them to the colonies.” Tréville coughed slightly, adding, “Our spies in Madrid never found proof for such procedures and King Philip outright denied it. He promised though to curtail such actions immediately should he hear of them.”

The Inseparables now stared at the former Minister of War struck dumb with horror. 

“Do you mean to say d'Artagnan was sold as a slave to the colonies?” Porthos asked in a strained voice, his face a mask of consternation.

“No,” Tréville answered with a determination that allowed nothing else, “I believe he died that day on the battlefield in Rocroi, together with four thousand brave French soldiers, enabling the French to be victorious and bring an end to the Thirty Years War. I believe he died that day as a courageous and true soldier of France in the service of his king and country.” 

Tréville could have added that for him this issue was done now and he didn't want to hear any more of it, but the Inseparables knew from experience when their former commanding officer had spoken his last words on a subject. They wouldn't hear anything else from their captain regarding this issue. If they wanted to know more, they would have to ask d'Artagnan, now more than ever dreading what the Gascon would have to tell them. _If_ he was willing to talk. They had already known, even before Tréville's report, that there was something the young man was troubled by that he wasn't willing to disclose.

A minute or two passed with each man mulling over what had been shared, then Aramis cleared his throat. 

“Captain, I have talked with--,” Aramis broached another point from their list, but was interrupted.

“Stop doing that,” Tréville said. 

Aramis looked up. “Stop doing what?”

Tréville eyed the marksman for a moment. Seeing the genuine surprise and incomprehension on Aramis' face, Tréville muttered, “Nothing,” and gestured for Aramis to continue with his report. He didn't know if it was out of habit or respect that they addressed him by his old title, but he decided worse things happened in this world. If they respected him and still saw in him the commanding officer he had once been for them, then he would let it slip. Maybe that way he would be able to reign them in if need be. God knew it had been hard enough back then when he gave orders none of the Inseparables felt obliged to follow. 

“I spoke with the police station in Lupiac,” Aramis commenced with his report. “It is in fact as d'Artagnan told us, they stopped the police investigation regarding the death of Alexandre d'Artagnan. Their files are closed. Moreover, it seems there is not even a report or anything else filed with the police in Lupiac anymore. The police officer,” Aramis browsed his notes, “Lieutenant Pinsolle was very forthcoming, though he couldn't or wasn't allowed to tell me why the investigation was stopped. I asked him to look into the file and at least tell me the date and who had signed the cessation. After a moment I'm sure he spent browsing his computer he told me, and he seemed genuinely surprised, that he couldn't find the files in the system anymore. I asked him to look into the paper file and call me back. He indeed called me back half an hour later, stating that he was not allowed to give more information about the case unless I produced a warrant from a judge. Apparently he had talked to someone in the meantime, most likely I'd say his direct supervisor. Now I wonder, captain, if you could either get any information via the police intranet or call the responsible _commissaire_ there. Something's definitely rotten in Lupiac and I wonder if any or all of the police officers there are on Rochefort's payroll. Or is it just that easy to close an official police investigation?” 

Tréville frowned, nodding. “I'll look into it, there's definitely something rotten. Do you have the name of the responsible commissioner there?”

“Yes.” Aramis slid a paper over the table to Tréville where the marksman had listed names and phone numbers, rank and responsibility of each police officer, as well as a short summary of the facts. Most evidently Aramis had been prepared to hand things over to their former captain.

Tréville picked up the paper with a small smile lingering on his lips upon Aramis' forethought.

“The insurance is is refusing to pay for anything unless they have the corresponding police report with a closure,” Athos informed the older man. “From what I could read between the lines I think d'Artagnan's mother is in dire need of the money the insurance should be paying. That's another reason why we need a police report stating that Alexandre d'Artagnan was murdered.” 

“Did you speak with the insurance?” Aramis asked.

“Yes, and they agreed to refund the car immediately as well as making a prepayment on the life insurance d'Artagnan's father had contracted. But they said it's only out of goodwill. To make further payments they need an official police report stating that the accident was neither self-inflicted nor suicidal,” Athos stated evenly.

Tréville looked surprised. Never before had he heard of an insurance paying anything without a hundred per cent proven evidence, filed tripartite.

Porthos smirked; he had heard through the closed office door when Athos had talked to the insurance, or rather had shouted at the poor creature at the other end of the phone line. It had been a rarity; their leader's deadly calm intonation usually was threatening enough without the need to raise the voice. In any way, Porthos would have been surprised to hear the insurance had not paid anything by now. “Do you want to join us for dinner, captain? We're picking up d'Artagnan on our way.”

The commissioner shook his head, checking something on his mobile. “No, I don't have time, I need to go back to the commissariat.” After a few more swipes on his mobile and troubled looking reading, he sighed audibly. 

“Problem?” Porthos asked.

“Well,” Tréville dragged the word, “there was indeed one more thing I wanted to discuss with you.” He sighed again, looking up into astonished faces. “Louis.”

“Come again?” 

Adding to the short, uncomprehending question all three men had voiced simultaneously, Aramis uttered, “Louis as in Louis _treize, roi de France,_ son of Henri IV of the House of Bourbon? _That_ Louis?”

Waiting for clarification the Inseparables stared expectantly at the former Minister of War.

“Well, yes, though he's not called Louis nowadays, but he certainly is no less demanding and smug than he was back then.” Tréville sighed for the third time.

“You can't be serious,” Athos declared and, seeing the expression on Tréville's face, added, “Don't tell me it's true. Just a few days ago you told us you knew of no one else.”

“I said I've never met anyone, and that is true. Besides, I only learned of Louis' existence about two weeks ago. I've never met him personally, but there's no doubt that it's him. I've talked to him.” Tréville fidgeted with his mobile, seemingly feeling uncomfortable. “He is coming to Paris, obviously for a longer stay, which would not be a problem if there was not his and his brother’s demand for police protection. Well, more than the usual protection royalty gets. With the recent terror attacks in Europe they are very frightened.”

“What do you mean with royalty? He is not a king or such? We would have heard!” Porthos demanded, his voice resounding through the room.

“No, not king, but kingly nonetheless. He is called Ludwig nowadays, which is, incidentally, the German word for Louis. His official title is His Royal Highness Ludwig Hans Theodor Ferdinand, Prince of Hanover, duke of Brunswick and Lüneburg, prince of Great Britain and Ireland. It's more or less simply a title, since Germany is not a kingdom anymore. Nonetheless, unfortunately he _is_ a prince, and through various relations to other European royal dynasties amongst others also a prince of Great Britain. I'm not sure what his actual rank in the line of succession to the British throne is, though. For this reason he is entitled to police protection. Which would not be a problem, normally, but he's demanding more than the usual two to four police officers we assign for unofficial visits – _if_ royal families ask for it. There are those European crowned heads who are not as demanding. Most bring their own security on private trips and we just have short briefings to see if they need local support.” 

“Is he married? I mean, to Anne?”

All heads turned to Aramis. It was definitely not the most important question one could ask after what Tréville had just disclosed, but well. For Aramis it was. Important.

“Yes, and no. He is married and bringing his wife with him, but I don’t think it’s Anna von Habsburg. The wife looks completely different from what I've seen in photos and there is not the least resemblance between....,” Tréville looked on his mobile, making a few swift motions with his finger, “Marie-Madeleine de Rochechouart and Anne of Austria. At least that's my opinion.“ 

“And what does this have to do with us, other than that we are more or less old acquaintances?“ Athos wanted to know.

“To put it plainly, I don’t have the manpower to detail more than two men for his visit. And I have neither time nor will to discuss this topic with them any longer. I hoped you would be willing to take care of his security if I suggest to the princes they should make use of your security firm, in collaboration with the police. I really don’t know what to do.” Tréville raked fingers through his short hair. “I can assign two of my men, but I know this will not be sufficient for him. You know him, from what I've heard from my predecessor, Lucien, he hasn’t changed much in his behavior. Still the spoiled brat he was, and I never thought I would ever say something like this about the king we once served.” Tréville shook his head and the Musketeers could see the lines of worry on their captain's face. Being commissioner in times like these might prove even more difficult and stressful than it had been commanding a Musketeer regiment in the time of Louis XIII.

“We no longer bear any loyalty towards him nowadays,” Aramis said, and his voice was neutral in a way that sounded strange. “Besides, does he know who he was?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met him in person yet, I've talked to him personally only once and two or three times to his head of security. What I know is what Lucien told me before he retired. It seems he's regularly gracing Paris with his presence, his wife is French and still has family here. Upper-class family.”

“Do you think there is cause for alarm, any credible threat to him?” Athos stepped to one of the windows, looking over to where the steeples of Notre Dame rose up to the sky. “With Rochefort on the loose, we can’t be sure whom else he is after, despite us. He might seek vengeance from everyone who contributed to his downfall and death. Which would include Louis and Anne, should she be reborn, too.”

“I really don’t know. We have no special reason for concern related to the visit of Louis and his wife. Neither police nor intelligence reports list any threats whatsoever in that regard. But you are well aware of the times we live in these days.”

“The usual risks aside, how do you classify this visit?”

Athos and Tréville eyed each other for a moment, before the latter answered. “We don’t know if Rochefort knows of Louis. Though he is some kind of celebrity in Germany, he is most likely unknown here in France. It’s hard to find him if one doesn’t know exactly where to look, even the tabloids are unusually void of news about him, it's his brother who is hounded by the press. On the other hand, if Rochefort is after you and already in Paris, he might learn of the visit of Louis. It’s no secret after all. And we don’t know with whom Rochefort is working. Given what Aramis reported about Lupiac, Rochefort might have spies even in my brigade.” 

Tréville's words hung between the men for a moment. 

“So, what you mean to say is that we not only have the threat with Rochefort, but also Louis around our neck,” Porthos declared.

“If you are willing to take over his security,” Tréville answered. “I can't force you and will accept whatever your decision is. It was just a thought. You don't owe him anything. But maybe for old time's sake and it might even bring us closer to Rochefort.”

Now it was Athos' turn to sigh, if almost inaudibly. “I'm not sure if we can handle it. We are only three, and we still have d'Artagnan to look after. As long as he is recovering, we can't operate at full capacity and I'm not going to risk his life again. Not for us and definitely not for Louis.” Athos turned to face his brothers. 

Porthos shrugged after a moment's hesitation. Aramis' face was unreadable, but he didn't shake his head or voice his concern, so Athos took this as an answer, too. He addressed Tréville. “Talk to him and offer him our service. If he is interested, I'll talk with his head of security. Then we'll decide. When is his visit scheduled?”

“Next week, Monday or Tuesday, he wasn't quite clear about that yet. Once I've spoken with him I'll let you know, and then he needs to decide on day and time.” Tréville walked to the door. “Thank you. And keep me informed about your investigations. I'll let you know as soon as I have information regarding Lupiac and you'll receive my officer's report on Rochefort this afternoon.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They spent the whole next day literally doing nothing but babysit d'Artagnan at Athos' place, making sure the Gascon didn't leave the couch, and if, then only to answer the call of nature. To be exact, Porthos and Aramis pampered and entertained the boy while Athos tried to work on at least a few papers. He gave up once Porthos started trying to shoot apples from Aramis' head, using ice cubes' he'd found in Athos' fridge, and Aramis squeaked like a mouse every time the big man missed his aim and the cold munition landed on the marksman's face or slid down his front, if Porthos had managed to hit the shirt's collar at the exact right angle. 

They ordered pizza for lunch and watched _Casino Royale_ and _Quantum of Solace_. D'Artagnan nodded off during _Skyfall_ by early evening and the older Inseparables used the time to go over the papers they had received from Tréville. The report on Rochefort contained no new and even less useful information.

D'Artagnan woke again when Porthos and Aramis left. They had an early assignment the next day and Athos considered this a fact fair enough to be entitled to throw the two out of his flat. D'Artagnan ate some of the leftover sandwiches and almost immediately went to his bed. After a cursory glance over the ravaged living room, Athos ensconced himself on the couch with his laptop on his knees and a glass of red wine at his side, savoring the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _tercio_ ("third") or _tercio español_ ("Spanish third") was a Spanish infantry organization during the time Habsburg Spain dominated Europe in the Early Modern era. The _tercios_ were the first to efficiently mix pikes and firearms. Tercio companies dominated European battlefields in the sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth century. According to the French bishop and scholar Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet the Spanish tercios fought in the battle as true human walls 
> 
> Louis/Ludwig is a fictive brother of the existing Ernst August, Prince of Hanover, Duke of Brunswick and Lüneburg, who is head of the deposed royal House of Hanover which held the thrones of the former Kingdom of Hanover until 1866 and of the sovereign Duchy of Brunswick. As the husband of Princess Caroline of Monaco, he is the brother-in-law of Albert II, Prince of Monaco. He also bears the title Royal Prince of Great Britain and Ireland. I thought, this would be a fitting house to let Louis be reborn into.


	12. I won't let go on the heart I know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis squinted at the bigger man for a moment, trying to find the fly in the ointment of the other's question, and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her and see what she wants. After all, there's a reason why I have a way with women.” He flashed Porthos a smile.

Chapter 12

~I won't let go on the heart I know~

Charlène, angrily hissing at someone at the other end of the phone line, gestured to the Musketeers as soon as they stepped through the door. Athos threw her a quick glance while rushing by to get to his office, needing to make an urgent call. He relied on Aramis and Porthos to take care of whatever Charlène was asking for. With a soft thud the door closed behind him. 

Aramis put on a charming smile and propped his elbows on the counter in front of the secretary's desk, patiently waiting until she finished her phone call.

Charlène rolled her eyes and returned another swipe or two to her counterpart before smacking the receiver back on the cradle. “Brainless moron,” she added towards the phone, then turned to Aramis and Porthos, pointing to the closed meeting room door. “There’s a woman waiting, she insisted she would wait for your return. She said it is urgent, and if you ask me, she looks pretty desperate, that’s why I didn’t send her away. I know you're snowed in with work, but she really looked like she would burst into tears if I sent her away. Maybe you can hear her out and see what you can do for her? Please? As far as I understood, her husband has vanished and the police aren't investigating, what with him being a grown man who might just have left his wife.”

It was unfair to foist this off on them, telling someone they had no time to take on a case when it was Charlène’s job to sort out such enquiries over the phone, but the men knew that Charlène was of the kind heart, and no one would be able to turn down a woman seeking help. Porthos sighed and looked at Aramis. “Since Athos has so cleverly shuffled out of the responsibility, would you take over?”

Aramis squinted at the bigger man for a moment, trying to find the fly in the ointment of the other's question, and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her and see what she wants. After all, there's a reason why I have a way with women.” He flashed Porthos a smile. 

Porthos grinned back and vanished into his office, also closing the door behind him.

Aramis headed to his workplace and grabbed his notepad and pen, then walked over to the conference room. He knocked and opened the door, only to freeze before he could take another step into the room. At the conference table sat a woman with a baby in her arms. Even with her head facing away from Aramis, bent over the little child, it was painfully clear who she was. Aramis was suddenly unable to breathe, his throat as dry as a sun-parched field in the Béarn, his tongue glued to the gums. For a moment he felt all the blood leave his body, veins filling with rivers of ice instead, his feet rooted to the ground. 

The woman turned her head, rising from the chair at the same time. She took a hesitant step towards the man at the door. 

For Aramis the sun rose inside the small conference room, the light of her small smile blinding him and sending waves of warmth again through his veins. He hoped, for the first time since his teenage years, that he wasn't blushing from the heat he felt spreading in his body. His heart was not helping either, its increased pulse rate only contributing to the blood rushing all the faster through his veins, causing his skin to inflame.

“Good afternoon,“ the woman greeted him, gracefully stretching her right hand towards Aramis while she balanced the baby on her left arm.

Aramis forced his lungs to fill with air, trying to breathe evenly without sucking it in, finally stepping completely through the door and closing it behind him. “Good afternoon,“ he rasped, grasping her hand, slim and warm and soft. He restrained himself – if only just – from bowing and kissing the hand the former Queen of France offered him. He took a moment longer than necessary before he let go of her hand, pointing to the table. “Please sit down again.” Rounding the table he seated himself across from her; that way he could fully behold her without running the risk of trying to touch her. “My name is Ar--, errm, René Espaloungue. How can I help you, _Madame_.....?

“My name is Anne-Marie Autriche.”

“Madame Autriche, how can I help you?” Aramis needed every ounce of willpower to form coherent sentences. To say he was in turmoil was the understatement of the year. He looked at Anne and the baby. Before this day, if asked, he would have said that babies all looked the same to him, that they maybe only differed in the color of their hair, if there was hair at all. Now, he knew he had seen this child before. It looked so much like the dauphin that he had to force his eyes away from the baby, lest he would be caught staring. He _knew_ he was definitely not the biological father of this child, his mind kept telling him it was in no way possible. But yet, his heart differed in opinion and whispered otherwise....

“A friend told me of your service. I know you might not have time, your secretary already said so, but I’m really desperate. My husband has vanished and the police are not going to do anything. They say there's no indication of a crime and he is a grown man and can do as he likes.” The accusations in the words were audible; the police seemed to be convinced they dealt with a husband who had abandoned his wife and child, nothing uncommon and not criminal. And yet, something in her voice was odd, indicating there was more behind what she had said.

_Dear God,_ Aramis thought, _I'm the most unsuitable man for this! How can she expect me to search for her husband when I want nothing more than for him to never show up again?_ “I see,” he managed to say while his thoughts were somersaulting, “what do you think caused the police to assume your husband left of his own free will? Or in other words, what do you think has happened to him, if you're sure he did not leave on his own volition?” Anne held his gaze and Aramis could see her eyes clouding over for a fraction of a second.

“The police are probably right, but I need to find him nonetheless. If they are not willing to investigate any longer, I need someone else to do it. Though I still believe he didn't disappear of his own free will.”

Aramis gave her an encouraging look, waiting for Anne to continue. The baby fiddled with a key chain, gurgling happily in his preoccupation with the makeshift toy.

“My husband and I are divorcing, and we had our court hearing scheduled for Tuesday last week. A day prior to that he disappeared. He hadn't been in the office all day, but that wasn't unusual according to his colleagues. He often spent a half or full day at his home office, and he fulfilled all his assignments that day, so there was no need for his colleagues to worry. Apparently he was still reading emails until late in the evening. When he didn't show up before court on Tuesday I tried to reach him and even drove by his apartment, but no one had seen him or knew of his whereabouts, and he didn't call back. Not even his lawyer could reach him. It's unlikely he would leave without telling anyone. Since then he has missed a couple of meetings and urgent calls in his office, so I don't think he left on his own accord. I'm sure something must have happened to him.” 

“Did the police, or you, check with hospitals? Maybe he had an accident and is not responsive?”

“Yes, I called a lot of hospitals on my own, and the police checked reports for accidents, unidentified found persons and accident victims and also checked with hospitals. After all those efforts brought nothing, they said there was nothing more they could do. According to his colleagues he's still checking his email account now and then, either from his mobile or a computer somewhere. The police believe that's proof enough that he's still alive and he has just absconded.” 

“Why?”

“Why what?” Anne asked. “Why do the police believe this or why did he have cause to disappear at all?”

“Both, I guess. What made the police think your husband had reasons to abscond? Reading his emails doesn't necessarily mean that it's him who reads the mails. He could have lost the phone or it was stolen and someone else is checking his inbox, maybe even answering some of the mails. Was your husband involved in something criminal? Or is he indebted? ”

“No, nothing like that. At least not as far as I know. The police told me I should consider the possibility that my husband simple dodged the divorce.” Anne paused for a moment, obviously debating what she should reveal of her personal situation. Absentmindedly stroking the child's hair, she continued. “It was me who filed for the divorce. While my husband has a good-paying job, the family money is mine. I inherited a large amount of money from my father which leaves me independent and without financial worries. After a divorce, my husband would not be entitled to this wealth anymore.” Anne broke off again, looking out of the window behind Aramis. “Antoine agreed to the divorce only after many difficult confrontations.” 

Hearing of the divorce, and that it had been Anne who had pushed the issue, comforted Aramis a great deal, but there was something else he sensed between the lines, a hint that there might be more than just the issues with the family wealth. Money seemed to be not the only reason why the husband had denied a divorce. Whatever the case, it would be wise to find the missing husband, if only to get Anne divorced from him.

Another fact nagged at Aramis, though he knew it was none of his business and dangerous territory he'd be better off not entering. He couldn't restrain himself from asking nonetheless and hoped he could mask the question with his interest in finding reasons for the disappearance of Anne's husband.

“Erm, the child, is it his? I mean....” Aramis was lost for words, suddenly realizing how stupid his question was. The child obviously was roughly a year old, and Aramis knew about the one-year separation law one had to meet before he or she could file for divorce. And then it would take some more time before a date for a court hearing would even be set. “What I mean--,” Aramis resumed, trying to save what could be saved, only to be interrupted by Anne.

“Henri is his. He was the one who cheated on me, that was one of the reasons I finally filed for divorce.” Anne seemed not to be affronted by Aramis' question, but her voice sounded sad when she continued. “Back then I was still trying to rescue what was left of our marriage, and I thought, in a last kind of fit of insanity, a child would help, but it was a mistake.” Appalled by what she had just said, Anne looked to Aramis wide-eyed, clutching her child as if it was in danger of slipping from her lap. “I don't mean Henri! He's the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, don't get me wrong! It was a mistake to believe Antoine would change if he knew he was becoming a father. That was what I meant. I realized this shortly after Henri was conceived, and I'm glad I didn't drag the decision out any longer.”

“I'm sorry, Madame. It was neither my intention to upset you nor was it my place to ask after Henri's father. I never meant to insinuate anything, but if we want to find your husband, we need to know every fact that may help us in our search. And that includes your personal situation, so there might be more private details we need to know in due course.” Aramis looked down at his notepad where he had scribbled a few words. It was more for the sake of not having to look at the downhearted expression on Anne's face than to see what notes he had made so far. He would have to ask for the other reasons why Anne had finally filed for a divorce. If cheating on her was one of them, he almost dreaded hearing in how many more ways the husband had humiliated and hurt Anne. “From what you've told me, it does sound like it's possible that your husband went into hiding to avoid being divorced from you, for whatever personal reasons he may have made that decision. Will he have to pay alimony or childcare for either you or your child?”

Anne shook her head.

“So even though you think trying to avoid the divorce might be a reason for hiding, you don't believe he disappeared on his own account?”

Anne nodded.

“The police discontinued the investigation because they claim there is not the slightest trace of a criminal act and they presume your husband vanished for personal reasons. Right?” When Anne nodded again, Aramis continued, “Doing so is not an offense as long as no one is harmed. Which, from what I understand, is the case here. No debts left behind? No other obligations?”

Aramis was well aware he was babbling, repeating himself, asking the same questions on and on, but his mind couldn't focus on more complex trains of thought at the moment; or it simply refused to let this meeting end, because it would mean seeing Anne leave. And he didn't want to see her go, that much he knew. He hoped the former queen had not yet realized she had answered questions with the same or similar tenor at least twice already.

Anne shook her head again. “No, nothing anyone could sue him for, as far as I know. His firm might want to file a suit, but he is co-owner and his associates mentioned that from time to time he had talked about taking a sabbatical. He never said anything in that regard to me, it would have been unlikely for him. His colleagues have not really been worried until now, they've just shifted my husband's workload to others.”

“You are convinced that all in all it's unlikely for your husband to just vanish without telling anyone and therefore believe something must have happened to him, right?” Aramis looked up from his notepad, catching Anne staring. He didn't drop his gaze and waited, and it didn't even feel awkward, the two once lovers viewing each other silently. 

Squinting her eyes, either unaware or not caring that she'd been caught gazing at Aramis, Anne asked, “Excuse me, but do we know each other? Have we met before?”

Aramis gulped. “Err, I don't think so. Not that I remember, no. Not in this life, anyway,” he tried joking, but it sounded strained even to his ears. 

“I'm sorry. I just thought....” Anne trailed off, looking down at her child. “What was the question?”

Aramis fumbled with his pen. “Your husband, you're convinced that something happened to him, right?” If he had counted right, it was probably the third time he asked this very question.

“Yes, though I cannot completely rule out the fact he might just have packed his things and left. For some strange reason he still thought he had some kind of right to call me his wife and didn't want to divorce,” Anne answered, stroking the baby's fingers still fiddling with the key chain. “Maybe he wants to punish me for filing for a divorce and thinks if he hides somewhere long enough, I might change my mind.”

“Well, for us whatever reasons your husband absconded for are not important. We'll find him and you can see the divorce through.” If Aramis had his own personal reasons for doing his utmost to find Anne's husband, nobody needed to know.

“So you would really take the case? I would be in your debt forever.” Anne looked expectantly at Aramis, a shimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Yes, Madame, you have just engaged LaFère Security to search for your husband. But I must point out that there is always the possibility that we won't be able to find your husband, or, au contraire to what the police believes, that your husband fell victim to a crime.” Aramis had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and he needed to talk to Athos immediately.

“I know, Monsieur Espaloungue. I've spent the last ten days worrying about what could have transpired. I'm almost certain something dreadful has happened to him. Please, don't think poorly of me, Antoine is still and always will be the father of Henri, but right now I don't care which of either possible outcome this ends with, I just want him to be found so I can bring this marriage to an end. Either naturally or through divorce. I need a conclusion to this marriage.” Anne's voice failed on the last words.

Aramis could see a glint of tears in her eyes, and suddenly he saw all the despair and strain and stress in the erstwhile queen's face she had so successfully suppressed until now. He hated Monsieur Autriche with every fiber of his body for bringing such distress to Anne. If her husband was still alive when LaFère Security found him, Aramis had to make sure his brothers kept him from killing the man himself. “I would like to bring in my colleagues so we can go through the details.” Aramis rose. “I'll go and get them. Can I offer you something else?” He pointed to the glass of water in front of Anne. “A coffee maybe?”

Anne shook her head. “No, thank you, I'm fine.”

“Okay, I'll be back in a few minutes.” Aramis left the room, hesitating a moment in front of the closed door before he made his way over to Athos' office. Without knocking he entered, closed the door behind him and slumped down on the couch.

Athos looked up the moment he heard the door, opening his mouth to protest to whoever was entering without knocking. Seeing the expression on Aramis' face he closed his mouth again, his eyes following the marksman to the couch. Something important must have happened, if he could still read his brother's expression and gestures right. Upon looking closer, Athos' stomach tensed up for a moment. The way Aramis raked his fingers through his hair in an obvious attempt to calm himself down didn't bode well. Athos rose and stepped around his desk, but before he could say anything, Aramis spoke. 

“Athos, I need your help. You have to come, you and Porthos.” Aramis looked up to where the older man approached.

“My god, Aramis, what happened? You look as if you've seen a ghost.” Athos took a seat opposite from his friend. 

“No, not a ghost, but someone from the past.”

Athos could not quite read the look Aramis darted him; something between despair, pain and hope.

“There was a new client waiting in the conference room, I went to talk with her. It's Anne.” Seeing the questioning look on Athos' face, Aramis added, “Anne of Austria, the queen. Queen Anne. God, Athos, how should I handle this? She just tasked us with the search for her husband. The police thinks he disappeared of his own free will but Anne believes something must have happened to him. We need to find him so they can divorce. Maybe he just vanished to punish Anne, so she is not able to marry someone else, not that I think that there is someone, though I don't know for sure. I forgot to ask her, but I think even she isn't sure if he just wants to punish her with---”

“Aramis,” Athos interrupted the stream of words. “Calm down. I got only half of what you said and could make sense of even less.” When he held the other's gaze, Athos continued, “So, the former Anne of Austria is in our conference room, engaging us to find her husband. Did I get that right? That's what we're here for. Does she know who we are?”

“No.” Aramis shook his head, “I don't think so. She introduced herself as Anne-Marie Autriche, and gave no hint she knew us. Her husband vanished, one day before the court hearing for their divorce, and the police discontinued the investigations. They are convinced he just abandoned wife and child. She thinks something's happened to him.”

“Ok, so far that's not--,”

“We have to find him! She won't be able to divorce him if he never shows up again!”

“Aramis, calm down. If tasked, it's our job to find missing persons, no matter why they vanished. Don't let personal feelings cloud your judgment. If you would rather not work--”

“Athos, that's not the point!”

Now Athos could see blank despair in the other's face, and it was so close to the look of fear his brother had displayed when Rochefort had accused Aramis and Anne of treason, that Athos stomach cramped again. He knew what the other was about to say even before the marksman spoke again.

“What if Rochefort is behind Monsieur Autriche's disappearance? What if he has her already in his sights? Athos, she has a small child! It was hard enough to keep an eye on d'Artagnan while he knew nothing of his past, and look how tremendously we failed! We can never protect her if Rochefort is already onto her.”

Athos reached over the coffee table, grasping Aramis' shoulder. “Did she say anything that hints at Rochefort?”

“No, but I haven't asked yet.” Aramis stared at Athos. “We must protect her. Her and the child. I can't shake the feeling that Rochefort has had a hand in the disappearance of Anne's husband. I'm sure he is still obsessed with her.”

Athos eyed his brother. If he had any say in this, he would make sure that no one would lay even as much as a finger on Anne or her child. Aramis had already lost so much in this life again and it had only been a couple of days since the marksman had had to fight for d'Artagnan's life. If he never again had to see a look of such total despair, on either of his brothers' faces, Athos would die a lucky man. He squeezed Aramis' shoulder reassuringly before he rose. “We'll talk to Tréville and ask for the police report, see what they have so far.” Athos walked over to his desk, grabbing the phone. He pushed a button and waited for a second. “Porthos, come to my office. It's urgent.” Athos replaced the handset. “We'll talk to her and see what details she can provide. After that I will speak with Tréville. Maybe he can provide a guard for her, if she can claim that her life is at stake.” Both men knew of the unlikeliness given the police's current thin staffing level, but neither voiced it. “But first of all we need to hear the whole story. Maybe her husband really simply abdicated his responsibility.”

A knock on the door interrupted Athos. Porthos stepped into the room, immediately sensing the tense atmosphere in the office. “What happened?” he asked, even before he had closed the door. When Aramis averted his face after a second, to look out the window, the big man's gaze shifted over to their undisputed leader. “Athos?”

Athos filled Porthos in with what their marksman had revealed earlier. The big man's eyes continuously darted to and fro between Athos and Aramis, the expression on Porthos' face shifting from surprise to anger to sympathy while doing so.

After Athos had finished, the three men looked at one another for a moment, until Athos announced, “Okay, let's talk to her. Are you ready?” The question was addressed to Aramis.

The marksman nodded and rose, following the other two out of the office.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anne had walked over to the window in the meantime. The baby was crawling on the floor, curiously exploring the sparsely furnished conference room. When the door opened, Anne turned around, looking expectantly to the three men. After a quick glance to her child, she walked towards the entering men.

“Good afternoon, I'm Olivier d'Autevielle, this is Isaac Porthau. Nice to meet you.”

Anne shook hands with Athos and Porthos.

“Monsieur Espaloungue told us of the job you have for us. I'm sure we can help you, but we would need more details to start on the assignment. First of all we need your address and your husband's, the police station where you reported the disappearance of your husband and a couple of other things. Please, take a seat.”

“Of course,” Anne replied, turning her head to young Henri who had just expressed his joy in the pure luck of his existence by patting his tiny hands on the radiator, creating a dull noise. Unsure of what she should do, Anne looked between Athos and the child. Before she could come to a conclusion, Aramis walked over to where Henri sat in front of the radiator.

“Hello young man,” Aramis addressed the child, crouching down to be on a more advantageous level with little Henri. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Henri looked up, stopping with his pounding on the metal, big eyes gazing at the man in front of him. Then the baby's expression lit up, a smile spreading over the whole face. Tiny arms stretched towards Aramis, signaling that the young man wanted to be picked up.

Aramis seized the chance and carefully lifted the child up into his arms. Immediately Henri grabbed for the marksman's beard, babbling unintelligible things. Aramis smiled down at the toddler, captured by the tiny hands on his face and the bright eyes staring at him. He could feel Athos' stare and Porthos' eye-rolling behind his back. Had he looked at his brothers, he would have seen the be-careful-dangerous-ground-look on Athos' face and the expression of I-hope-you-know-what-you-are-doing Porthos displayed. But Aramis only had eyes for the child in his arms, and missed his friends' warning gazes.

Anne, certain her child was in good hands, sat back down at the table, waiting for Athos and Porthos to also seat themselves.

With a last quick glance to Aramis, Athos opened his notepad.

While his brothers interviewed Anne again, Aramis showed little Henri the cars on Rue Dante, the houses on the other side of the street, the birds in the sky, the steeples of Notre Dame in the distance, kids hurrying by on the pavement and a lot more things. Not once did the child cry for his mother or wriggle to get out of Aramis' arms. Most of the time a tiny hand firmly held onto Aramis' short beard, the other hand either trying to catch a bird flying by outside or patting at the window. Aramis had been so occupied with Henri that he missed most of what was talked about at the table. With a pang of guilt he tuned in on the conversation again.

“You said no ransom was demanded. If your husband didn't leave voluntarily, and there was no match with unidentified casualties, have you ever thought about someone wanting to harm your family? Not only your husband, but you and your child as well? Have you had the feeling of being observed? Can you think of any strange incidents, someone you saw repeatedly in the vicinity of your flat over the course of a couple of days?”

Anne looked to Aramis who approached the small group seated at the far end of the table, smiling at him. Then her gaze returned to Athos. “No, I can't recall anything, at least not at the moment.” The expression on her face shifted. “Do you think Henri and I are in danger? But why?”

Athos could see that something had occurred to her suddenly; the fact, that she was a wealthy woman. He could see fear in her eyes when she looked at him. 

“I thought it was just--. Do you think we are in danger as well? Do you think Antoine was murdered?”

Athos looked at Aramis.

“We don't know, but you should be careful,” Aramis answered, holding out the child to Anne who seated the infant on her lap. Aramis pulled out the chair beside Anne, taking a seat. “It's just a precaution you should consider. If you see any suspicious persons lingering around your apartment, call us or the police immediately. As long as we don't know what happened to your husband, we must consider every option.”

“Maybe you could move in with a friend for a few days, not stay at your own flat for awhile,” Porthos interposed. “We don't want to frighten you, most likely there's no threat to you. We just like to exclude as many dangers as possible.” 

Anne looked thoughtful. “I have an appointment tomorrow I can't postpone, but I'll think about it.”

“We need a number where we can always reach you,” Athos declared. “And it would be good if you would let us know if you move in with someone, and give us the address .”

“Of course, I'll call you. You can always reach me on my mobile, I'll make sure to carry it with me wherever I go.”

“I think we have all necessary information so far. We'll let you know as soon as we have any news.” Athos took a quick glance at his wrist watch. “Can we reach you later if we have more questions?”

“Yes, I'll be home all evening.” Anne rose. “Thank you, Messieurs. Don't hesitate to ask whenever you need more information.”

They said good-bye, waving to Henri who frantically waved back.

“I'll see you out,” Aramis muttered, holding the door open for Anne.

Athos and Porthos watched how Aramis and Anne shook hands, the latter smiling at Aramis while the marksman actually really bowed slightly, stroking through the baby's hair afterwards.

Porthos rolled his eyes and smirked, “He's lost to the ladies. Now there's only one he will ever have eyes for again.”

“At least she isn't a queen and is already filing for divorce,” Athos answered drily, “that's an improvement.” Grabbing his notepad, he made his way to the door. “I'll call Tréville, he needs to be informed and we really need those police reports on Monsieur Autriche.”

Porthos nodded and walked over to Aramis. The marksman was still staring at the closed door even after Anne had left the office. Throwing an arm around the smaller man's shoulder, Porthos declared, “I think you need a beer, _mon ami_. Come.” He steered Aramis towards Athos' office before going to retrieve the beverage from the small kitchen. He had a feeling another long evening full of work lay ahead of them and it would need more than some alcohol to cheer Aramis up. Meeting Anne and Henri had unhinged Aramis a good deal and seeing her under a possible threat from Rochefort was not contributing to the marksman's mental stability.


	13. Run (for your life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos, shrugging into his jacket and closing his door, glanced at Athos, holding the other's gaze for a moment. Both men knew Athos was not asking because he craved alcohol tonight, but rather for the sake of Aramis.

Chapter 13

~Run (for your life)~

After Anne had left, Athos called d'Artagnan and asked if he felt fit enough to join them in the office. Since they had more work to do and would not be able to have dinner together as promised, Athos suggested d'Artagnan could join them here and help with the research. As expected, the boy was more than happy to leave Athos' apartment and actually _do_ something. Athos replaced the handset, staring at it for a moment. 

Porthos, who had listened to the last part of the conversation after bringing the beer, read Athos' thoughts as if they were written on the older man's brow. “I'll go to meet the pup on his way; if he glowers at me for thinking he's not capable of walking the few hundred meters on his own I'll tell him it was your idea. At least he'll arrive safely.” Patting the side where his shoulder holster was attached, Porthos grinned at Athos.

The elder man eyed Porthos for a moment, touched by the other's mindfulness. “Thanks,” he answered, inclining his head slightly. “I'll call Tréville in the meantime.”

Athos was still on the phone with Tréville, filling their captain in on the details of Anne's appearance in the office, her husband's disappearance, and their suspicion that Rochefort was involved, when Porthos arrived with d'Artagnan in tow. The boy immediately started questioning Aramis in a hushed voice, so the marksman had no choice but to stir from his brooding and answer every question the Gascon had in regard to the former queen.

Finally, Athos finished his call. “How are you?” he asked, eyeing d'Artagnan.

“Fine,” d'Artagnan answered, hurriedly adding when he saw the expression on Athos' face, “much better than yesterday, anyway. I was almost free of pain today even without a pain reliever.”

"What?" Aramis focused his wandering attention. “Is it still hurting? A lot? How many pain relievers do you need to get through the day?” Aramis reached out to d'Artagnan. “Let me see it, I hope it hasn't become infected.” 

“Not since yesterday,” d'Artagnan snapped, trying to ward off Aramis' hands. “I'm fine! I don't need pain relievers anymore. I just said so to Athos to keep him satisfied, otherwise he won't stop asking if I am in pain!”

“You didn't take your pain relievers?” Athos growled.

“Let me see the wound,” Aramis insisted.

D'Artagnan rose from the couch, taking two quick steps to stand beside the bigger man. “Porthos, please, tell them I'm fine! I'm not in pain anymore and the wound is healing perfectly well. Now and then there's a prickle, and that's all. Damn it, I've gone through worse than this!” The last words he almost shouted, causing his brothers to startle.

Athos and Aramis exchanged awkward glances before looking back to d'Artagnan.

Porthos had taken a sideways step, moving in front of d'Artagnan. “If he says he's fine, he's fine. Stop mother-henning him. He promised to tell us if he's hurt or in pain.” Porthos gazed sternly at both his friends, and his look conveyed more than just his request to stop fussing over the boy.

Athos inclined his head. “Very well, you're right. I trust you'll tell us if you're hurting or in need of help.” The last part was addressed to d'Artagnan who simply nodded. With a last glance at the young man, Athos added, “We have work to do.” He informed them about his conversation with Tréville and what the captain was going to do. “Tréville promised to send someone tomorrow morning with material, including the police file for Antoine Autriche.” After Athos had assigned each of them tasks, everyone returned to his office to start with researching.

D'Artagnan had taken a closer look at his new office two days prior when Athos had shown him the room, the boy as deeply moved by the gesture and the engraved pauldron as Aramis had been. Today was the first time he really worked in his new office space and it took a while before he could concentrate on his task and stopped glancing around in awe. When he looked through the open door, he could see Athos sitting at his desk, and d'Artagnan couldn't help wondering if it was coincidence he had been allotted this room or if it was on purpose. With a smile on his lips and a last glance towards Athos' head, bent over papers on his desk, d'Artagnan started typing search requests into his computer. 

Late in the evening they ordered pizza and it was well past midnight when Athos suggested they call it a day and get a nap. Or rather get a nightcap. “Anyone interested in a nightcap at my place? I'm inclined to open a bottle of Bordeaux and wouldn't mind having company.”

Porthos, shrugging into his jacket and closing his door, glanced at Athos, holding the other's gaze for a moment. Both men knew Athos was not asking because he craved alcohol tonight, but rather for the sake of Aramis. Since Athos' apartment was closest to the firm and the most spacious of all their lodgings, Porthos abandoned his plan to drag Aramis with him to his own apartment and nodded. “I wouldn't mind, lead the way.”

Aramis' expression clearly showed what he thought of the suggestion, so his consenting 'I'm in!' was unnecessary, but Athos returned the statement with a short, approving nod nonetheless.

None of them drank much after Athos had opened one of his more expensive bottles of red wine, d'Artagnan drank nothing at all, but drinking had not been the point anyway. In the end it was Athos and Aramis who stayed up late together, conversing in hushed voices, though it was mostly Aramis talking and Athos listening, interrupted only now and then by Porthos' soft snoring. The bigger man had fallen asleep on the couch some time after d'Artagnan had retired to his room and Aramis simply had heaved his friend's legs up onto the couch and put a blanket over the sleeping man. 

When Aramis started having problems keeping his eyes open any longer, Athos put down his glass, pulled his friend up from the chair and steered him to Athos' bedroom, not reacting to the marksman's half-hearted protest. His bed was big enough for two, after all, and Athos was willing to share it for a night, if it granted the marksman a good night's sleep. Something Aramis seemed to be in dire need of. 

Well, and if Athos woke up early the next morning with Aramis clinging to his back, the marksman's arm firmly clutching Athos' upper body, the older man didn't waste any words on it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two days later they finally had their first real trace of Rochefort. Sifting through hours of CCTV footage courtesy of Tréville, d'Artagnan had spotted the king's former right hand on two different tapes, both in the vicinity of Anne's apartment. One was from a place a few hundred meters away from where Anne lived, the other from a metro station in the same _arrondissement._ From there on, working with this information, it was easier to check possible ways Rochefort could have walked and metro lines he might have taken. They found more footage with picture fragments of the blond man and started to get a feeling for the circles their foe moved in. Going back in time, they actually found more material where Rochefort could be seen nearby Monsieur Autriche's office on three separate days. 

Porthos heard back from the sources he had revived much to the dismay of Athos. The contact person spoke of information about two possible hideouts for Rochefort, though the name Rochefort was not mentioned explicitly. Porthos had decided to check both places this afternoon together with Aramis as soon as he acquired the addresses.

D'Artagnan not only had checked hours and hours of CCTV footage but also managed to tap the surveillance in the street where Anne lived. That way they had access to the surveillance system and Aramis could frequently check who walked by or into the house Anne lived in. It was illegal, but Aramis couldn't care less about that fact at the moment, and Athos tacitly accepted the violation. 

Aramis had talked to Anne a couple of times over the phone the day after she had consulted them in the office. He had always been able to come up with a logical explanation why he needed to call her, so he was certain she didn't suspect anything behind his calls, other than that he needed more information. When asked if she had thought about moving in with a friend, she had been evasive, telling him she had another appointment the next day and had plainly forgotten to make plans in that regard. What appointment it was, she had not explained, and Aramis had not dared to ask. The next day Anne had not answered any of Aramis' calls. Checking the surveillance he had seen her leaving her flat around noon together with Henri and a girlfriend but not return later. Rochefort could not be detected on the footage, a fact that brought at least a little relief to Aramis, if only just. He couldn't stop worrying.

Athos suggested Anne might have moved in with a friend for a few days after all, given she had left her apartment with Henri, a baby buggy and a small travel bag, and simply forgotten to inform them for whatever reasons. Though he couldn't even convince himself of this, nor could he explain why she wasn't answering any calls.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Musketeers were on their way back from a short meeting with Tréville, where they’d discussed the upcoming visit of Louis. The captain had handed over papers from the prince's head of security with detailed information about planned activities, including exact dates and times. He had promised to join them in the evening for dinner to talk about the state of affairs regarding Rochefort and the missing husband of Anne. 

“Let's have a coffee and get something to eat, I'm starving. I hadn't had breakfast, or at least not enough to fill my stomach,” Porthos suggested when they walked by a small cafe.

Athos checked his watch; they could have coffee at the office, which was just a short walk away, but looking at the tired faces of his companions he knew they all needed a break and a little time away from their computers and work. Besides, the smell coming out of the café and wafting through the street was more than appealing.

“Fine,” Athos answered with a barely suppressed sigh, seating himself at one of the small tables arranged on the pavement outside the café, “let's have second breakfast.” 

Everyone ordered coffee and croissants, and a comfortable silence settled between the men while they enjoyed their elevenses and the small break in their stressful days. Suddenly, Porthos sat up straight. ”A thought just popped into my head. Didn’t you say your ex-wife is in London?”

Athos looked surprised, but answered indifferently, “Yes, she is. Why?”

“I’m not sure where those TV series are shot, but Dr. Who is a British series, produced for BBC. It would make sense if one or the other actor is living in or around London. Do you think it's coincidence your wife is living in London, too? There could be a connection.”

“Since you two have yet to grow tired of telling me it’s not Richelieu, beside the striking resemblance, I don't see your point, Porthos,” Aramis remarked trenchantly. “Why worry about it? Oh, wait, if it _was_ Richelieu, which incidentally I'm convinced of, I think it's definitely something we should worry about.” Looking at Athos, he added ironically, “But here I'm certainly wrong again, too.”

Athos kept silent, gazing at Aramis. He knew the testy reply was owing to the fact that Aramis was worried about Anne. The marksman hadn't been able to reach her for over a day, a fact that was straining their friend's nerves.

Athos' silence, however, caused the others to take a closer look at their leader.

“Is there something you aren't telling us?” Porthos asked.

Athos gaze switched to the bigger man. “I did a little research on the actor. It seems his biological mother, who died shortly after giving birth, hailed from Ireland, one Edel-Armande Duplessis. Could be coincidence, but somehow I don't think so. After all, I have to admit, there is some resemblance with the former cardinal. Though there is still no proof.”

Aramis scrutinized Athos, speechless for a moment. “And you didn't deem that fact important enough to tell us? With Rochefort back and Louis coming to Paris and everything else that's going on? And your wife in London?” Aramis was perplexed about his friend's behavior, and it could plainly be heard in his speech.

“Ex-wife,” Athos countered.

Aramis rose. “Yeah, fucking hell, ex-wife! Now that’s the most important fact here, isn’t it?” Aramis voice gained in volume, and all could feel the anger radiating from the marksman.

D'Artagnan, who had not yet been told about the possibility of Richelieu being back, stared at his brothers wide-eyed, but didn't dare interrupt the angry exchange between Athos and Aramis.

“Aramis, whether or not I had told you, doesn't matter. I don’t think Richelieu is a threat at the moment, if this man is Richelieu at all. He might in all likelihood not even remember. And the same goes with Anne. She never gave a hint and I haven't heard of anything out of the ordinary happening to her in the meantime. One would think---”

“It’s not yours to judge if we have a right or not to know that Richelieu is back!” Aramis hollered. “No matter if he remembers or not. I thought we are a team. What's with one for all, all for one, if _Athos_ is keeping information he deems his companions not worthy enough to know?” Aramis stared furiously at their leader, his voice dropping to an angry hissing. “Every bit of information is vital in this situation, and you should let _us_ decide if we deem it important or not!”

“Aramis is right, you know,” Porthos interfered. “They both might become a threat. If they get or already have their memories back, and pick up where they stopped, I don’t think anything good will come out of it. Whether or not they are or might become a threat to us, I'd like to be prepared.”

Athos eyed Aramis and Porthos for a moment before responding. “I don’t think we have anything to fear from Richelieu. The times are different, and back then he really only had the prosperity and ascendancy of France in mind with all his scheming. Nowadays there is no reason for him to pick a quarrel with us. What would he gain from it?”

“Only the good of France?” Aramis calm voice dripped with venom. “Where exactly was the welfare of France in killing Adele? Don’t you think that was a tad personal?”

“Aramis, you slept with his mistress. You knew the danger. We all knew Richelieu was a possessive man, one who would not see himself snubbed without vengeance.” Athos rose from his seat to be on eye-level with Aramis.

“You think I should let it drop? You think Adele's death was my fault after all and he is not to blame? Is that your way of looking at things?”

Aramis' pitch of the voice and choice of wording prompted Porthos to rise, too, stepping towards the marksman in case he had to restrain his friend from lunging at Athos.

“I never said this, Aramis. All I--” Athos was cut off.

“No, Athos.” Aramis took a step towards the older man, entering the other's personal space, their faces only a couple of centimeters away from each other. “If God grants me this second chance in life, I will wreak vengeance on him for Adele's death. I cannot let it pass. Adele had nothing to do with the quarrels Richelieu had with me or any of us. He simply killed her to hurt me, she meant nothing to him. Her death cannot go unatoned. I can neither forgive nor forget, not even after hundreds of years.” Darting Athos a last frosty look, Aramis turned sharply around and walked away.

“Where are you going?” d'Artagnan called, finally daring to say something.

“Aramis, don’t be a fool! We have more serious problems at the moment,” Athos shouted, watching the marksman stride away.

Porthos turned to the former _comte_. “You should have told him. You should have told us. Whether or not we like it, Aramis has a right to know.”

Athos frowned at Porthos. “I only wanted to keep him from doing anything rash. It has nothing to do with not trusting you. How can--”

“You worry for him, I know,” Porthos interrupted. “Yet you should have told him.”

“How can he even think I blame him for Adele's death?”

“He didn't mean what he said, Athos. At least not that part, I'm certain of it,” Porthos answered, watching Aramis go around a corner, vanishing from their line of sight.

“Um, can one of you please explain to me what this is all about?” d'Artagnan looked from one man to the other, waiting for an explanation.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis hurried down Rue de Poissy, heading towards the Seine, driven by his anger. He was angry at Athos for not telling him and angry at himself for losing his temper. Athos was right, they had more pressing things to worry about, but Athos' betrayal hurt. He was sure Athos had had his reasons for it, one of them certainly the fear Aramis might board the next plane to London and confront the man. He had pondered doing so, but with no proof that it really was the former First Minister of France he had discarded the plan for the time being. Aramis wondered how Athos had been able to obtain the information on the actor, when Aramis' own research had produced nothing in that regard. He knew he should let his obsession with Richelieu drop, but he couldn't. Just as he couldn't forgive Richelieu for killing Adele, he couldn't forgive himself for being the reason for it in the first place. Not even more than three hundred years later. 

Had he not been so distracted by the anger and guilt rolling inside him like a storm-tossed ocean, he might have been aware of a presence behind him before he felt a hand grasping his arm. Thus, he was completely caught off-guard. Before he could turn, the muzzle of a pistol was pressed painfully into his side, just above the liver. “You should have been more observant, Musketeer,” a voice hissed into his ear. His arm was released, the pressure in his side increasing. What followed was a short sharp pain in his neck and when he registered what it was, his system was already shutting down and he lost consciousness within a couple of seconds.


	14. The enemy has broken our borders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis felt a cold hand clutching his heart and the centuries-old, familiar fear for Anne taking possession of him.

Chapter 14

~The Enemy Has Broken Our Borders~

Coming to again, it took Aramis a moment to sort out where he was. His bed felt different, the light was too dim for his bedroom and the ceiling was unknown to him. He closed his eyes again, trying to remember what day it was and if it was morning or night. He groaned, feeling nausea rise up his throat. Was he hung-over? He couldn't remember drinking, nor the cause for drowning in alcohol. Like a blow to his head, the recollection of what had happened hit him. He had been on his way to..., well, _somewhere,_ away from Athos who had kept knowledge to himself he should have shared with his brothers. Someone had attacked him and injected him with something. Most likely some narcotics. He recognized the after-effects of being narcotized. Aramis kept his eyes closed and tried to think, tried to figure out who had taken him and where he was. He had no idea, though a voice inside his head quietly chanted _Rochefort, Rochefort,_ his heartbeat setting the rhythm, and it wouldn't stop. He felt fear crawling up his spine and his thoughts wandered to Anne. 

A creaking hinted at a door being opened, somewhere near him, behind him. He opened his eyes and immediately felt spikes of pain torturing his head, even though the light was still dim. _Most definitely a narcotic in combination with a muscle relaxant,_ he came to a conclusion, given how his head reacted and the way his limbs felt. It took a great deal of effort to even lift an arm. 

“Ah, I see you're awake,” someone stated, and the voice was too close for Aramis' liking. Turning his eyes to where the sound came from, Aramis had to restrain himself from flinching. Beside the bunk he lay on stood Rochefort. Aramis had expected this; what he hadn't expected was the fact that the man wore leather trousers, and leather boots. His shirt, neither sewn nor embroidered as masterfully as it had been back in those days, was unbuttoned almost to his bellybutton. All the man lacked was a rapier dangling from his hip and that awful leather coat he had worn. Then the guise would have been perfect. 

Aramis groaned, and not only because of his splitting headache. “I can't believe this.” 

“So,” Rochefort sing-songed, “you do know who I am then?” 

“Even though you didn't leave the best impression, sadly, one can hardly forget you, Rochefort.” 

A wicked smile crawled over the skinny man's face. “Ah, that's good. It would only be half the fun if you wouldn't remember. _Aramis._ ” Rochefort stretched the last word, stressing each syllable. “You certainly also know why you are here, don't you?” 

Aramis nursed the idea of not responding at all, of simply waiting until his brothers came to free him. Dealing with this man again was ridiculous. However, from personal experience Aramis well knew how dangerous and Machiavellian this man was. He had every reason to believe the present time Rochefort was no different from the Comte de Rochefort. Aramis would need to be very careful if he wanted to stay alive. “Catching up on old times? Something like that? By the way, if one might ask, what are you? Certainly not a _comte_ anymore, I would guess.” 

Rochefort slapped Aramis across the face, fast and hard. 

Aramis was caught off-guard, again, and with the muscle relaxant still running through his system he was too slow to react. His head flew sideways and was stopped hard when his left side hit the wall. Tasting copper in his mouth he slowly brought his head up again and straightened himself. “Well, I have to admit that was unexpected,” Aramis drawled. Only now he realized neither his hands nor his feet were bound, but with the dazed feeling and his immobilized limbs, he was too slow and weak to put up a fight. Rochefort definitely knew about the effect of whatever it was that was running through Aramis' veins. 

“Again, do you know why you are here?” 

Aramis offered another answer. “Revenge?” 

A devilish grin settled on Rochefort's face. “The question is, where to start? I want you all to suffer, long and painfully. It was rather luck than planning that I ran across you today, on your own without the others. Well, luck for me, not for you I'd suppose. You were not number one on my list, despite your vile transgressions. I had wanted to start with the Gascon boy you all seem to be so fond of.“ Rochefort started pacing. “Unfortunately those vagrants didn't do a proper job, and afterwards it was harder to get to him. If you're wondering why I'm telling you all this, the answer is simple. I want you to know how and why I'm doing this. Before you die, you'll understand what I went through, what you robbed me of. You and your brothers will feel the same pain and desperation I had to go through. You, above everyone else, deserve every kind of pain a man is able to inflict on another. You disgraced the queen, you took what you wanted without bearing the consequences, you disgraced her pure body and chaste soul for your own despicable desire.” 

With an increasing uneasiness Aramis realized Rochefort was mad. Every inch as mad as he had been back then, maybe even more, if that was possible. Aramis felt a cold hand clutching his heart and the centuries-old, familiar fear for Anne taking possession of him. Rochefort was so occupied with his accusations, it would have been easy for the Musketeer Aramis had once been to overpower the man. But sedated as he was, not even his mind was working properly, still less his muscles. Nevertheless, he needed to form a plan, and quickly. “So, what do you intend to do with me. Quarter me? Break me on the wheel?” 

Rochefort stopped in his track. “No, but you will suffer, don't worry. First I need to get hold of the others, too. I want each of you to see what I do to the other. You'll watch each other dying without being able to do anything about it.” 

Watching his brothers die was nothing new to Aramis, though he had hoped he would never have to go through it again. 

Rochefort planted himself in front of Aramis, bending slightly at the hips to bring his face level with the marksman. “And then, when none of you will walk this earth anymore, she will be mine.” Rochefort saw Aramis' pupils widening in cognition and fear. His smile grew even more. “She will be mine, and you will be unable to do anything about it. And if she can prove that child of hers is _not yours_ , maybe I'll let the baby live. One day it might even say daddy to me.” 

Aramis wanted nothing more than to hit Rochefort right in the face and he tried to find an eloquent answer, but before he could open his mouth or try to bring his arm up, Rochefort hit him again. And again, one blow quickly after the other. He did it with such a force Aramis felt his skin split open and blood gushing out. He had not yet heard bones crack or teeth rattle, but he was sure Rochefort was capable of obtaining such a result sooner or later.

In slow motion and with great effort Aramis brought up his arm to touch the skin on his face. It felt raw and the skin burned on touch. Another fist came hurtling down on him, but this time Aramis managed to bring his arm a little higher just in time to prevent Rochefort's knuckles connecting with his temple. The momentum, however, was enough to throw his head once again to the wall. Aramis closed his eyes for a moment to regain his senses and brace himself. When he opened them, a light flashed. Rochefort was taking photos with his mobile.

“They will love it,” Rochefort chuckled.

The manic grin on the other man's face caused a light shudder to run through Aramis. Rochefort had completely gone mad, Aramis was certain of it. The question was, if he was mad enough to make mistakes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“This is getting ridiculous,” Athos said, glaring at his mobile. “It's one thing to be in the sulks, but he is neglecting his duty.” 

While Athos still thought Aramis was behaving childishly, Porthos had started worrying when their friend hadn't shown up to the meeting with a client. It was unusual for the marksman to miss an appointment, even if he was angry with them. With Athos, to be exact. As in their Musketeer-times, Aramis would have ignored Athos and not spoken with him, but he would have come. The big man wondered what could have happened and couldn't wait until their next meeting was over so he could start searching for his brother. Aramis hadn't answered any calls, neither on his mobile nor at home. Porthos had even walked over to the marksman's apartment and knocked and shouted but no one had answered the door. Well, the neighbors had, demanding to know what the hollering was about, but none of them had seen Aramis. 

“Come, it's disrespectful to let the client wait any longer, he is willing to pay a lot of money for this security package, after all. D'Artagnan, you can explain the technical details to him. I'll tell him what he has to pay for it.” Athos didn't wait for a response, already walking over to the conference room.

The meeting was over in less than half an hour and the client had left a couple of minutes ago. Athos put the signed contract on Charlene’s desk so she could start ordering the necessary equipment and making appointments after her prolonged lunch break. The client had bought a security alarm system for his house and the package included personal protection on demand, with a 48 hour allowance for notice, but not more than twice a month, and no longer than four hours. This was to be paid extra, though the client had made it clear this clause in the contract was only a precaution, should he or one of his family members receive threats on account of his work. He was a judge with the district court and involved in some delicate cases, including drug smuggling and human trafficking. 

The remaining Inseparables stood around the reception desk, looking awkwardly at each other.

“I'm going to search for him. Maybe he is somewhere at the Seine, trying to cool off and has muted his mobile. Or lost it.” Porthos knew both options were more than unlikely for Aramis, but it was better than thinking about the alternatives.

D'Artagnan nodded, “I'll check the surveillance we have access to. Maybe he went to see if Madame Autriche is at home.”

Athos eyed them silently. He knew he should have told the others about Richelieu, but he plainly had not deemed it necessary. Until there was a real threat to be expected from the actor, the marksman didn't need to worry about Richelieu. Athos knew he was lying to himself; he had tried to keep Aramis from doing something he would regret later, something Athos wouldn't be able to get him out of. Getting away with murder had been a lot easier in the 17th century than it was nowadays, though Athos didn't think his brother would really go so far as to kill the man. He wasn't sure anymore if it had been such a brilliant idea or if he hadn't achieved exactly the opposite. Maybe Aramis had rushed off, driven by anger, to do something stupid, and this thought left a queasy feeling with Athos. They should check the airlines. Not many planes were leaving _Charles de Gaulle_ for London today and he had a decent connection with one of the service desk's members. She could check the passenger lists within a couple of minutes.

“You're right, we are done here for today, and should go looking for him.” Athos' phone buzzed once and he fished it out of his back pocket, swiping over the front to unlock the screen and read the new message. It was a message from Aramis, but without text, the mail just contained an attachment. Athos opened the attachment and it took a moment until it loaded. “I thought of checking the passenger lists, maybe he really did something as stupid as board a plane to London, though it seems we might get an answer right now.”

Porthos halted in his movement of shrugging into his jacket, expectantly looking at Athos.

“What the...,” Athos hissed and looked up to his brothers. “Fuck!”

A word such as this coming out of the former _comte_ 's mouth even made d'Artagnan feel uneasy. Usually their leader was very picky with his choice of wording, especially when using curses. Bad news must have reached Athos, prompting him to utter such a word.

“What is it?” Porthos demanded, and Athos held out his phone for the others to see.

It was a picture, a close-up of a man, a little grainy, the face illuminated from the photoflash. The face belonged to Aramis who looked dazedly into the camera lens, the nose bleeding, a cut above his brow and one on the left cheek oozing blood. A split lip added to the picture.

“Fuck,” Porthos repeated, for lack of a better word choice.

“Holy shit,” d'Artagnan supplied, “what happened to him?”

Athos looked at the picture again, trying to get information about where the photo had been taken and most importantly who had taken it. He didn't for one minute believe Aramis had trailed off, gotten himself involved in a street brawl and was sending pictures of the outcome. Athos' phone buzzed again, another mail coming in.

_Don't worry, there'll be more pictures coming. Not sure how long he'll survive, though. Best you hurry up!_

Athos read it aloud, looking up afterwards. Both Porthos and d'Artagnan had turned into statues, standing stiff and stunned, the pup's eyes wide open.

Another beep announced a further message. It was just two words, but they explained more than thousand words would have, causing a cold shiver of fear to run down Athos' spine.

_Yours, Rochefort_


	15. Give me strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Porthos, we'll need any help we can get to find Aramis, so let's hear what the captain has to say and then we'll go. We _will_ get him back,” Athos responded in a calm voice, looking intently at his friend.

CHAPTER 15

~Give me strength~

Athos rubbed a hand over his brow, feeling a headache coming on. “I need to call Tréville for help. We'll need more manpower to search for Aramis and the captain can track the mobile. Most importantly we must know where it is being used at this very moment.” He glared at his mobile as if trying to figure out how to use the device. Instead of calling Tréville he kept staring at the picture of their marksman. Absentmindedly he continued speaking. “How on earth could Rochefort get the better of Aramis? How....” Athos trailed off. He knew how, and he knew who was responsible for this, too. Once more it was his fault, no one else but he was the one to blame... 

“Athos,” Porthos interrupted the man's musing, looking at their leader. “I can hear you thinking. This is not your fault, but that's nothing we need to discuss now either. We need to find Aramis, and fast. Call Tréville, I'll call Abdul and then the pup and I will check whatever information I get.”

“Who is Abdul?” d'Artagnan asked, still shocked.

“No one. Get ready, we'll leave in a few minutes.” The big man had his mobile in his hand, making his way over to his office. 

“Porthos,” Athos said in a voice balanced between anger and uncertainty. “You know what I think of this.”

D'Artagnan looked to and fro between both men, certain he would get an explanation at least about who this Abdul was.

“Yeah?” Porthos stated, anger manifesting in his voice, “And I'm not happy with Aramis being in the hands of Rochefort. If I can get information, any information that will lead us to Aramis, I'm taking the chance.” 

Athos held Porthos' gaze. “I know and I would do the same. Still I'm not happy about your planning to.... return there. What is the price they'll want for this?”

The big man laughed a humorless laugh. “You worry for me? Don't. I can handle this, believe me. All we have to worry about at the moment is Aramis.”

“Hey, can someone please tell me what you're talking about? What do you intend to do?” d'Artagnan asked Porthos. 

“He's returning to where he came from, reviving old bonds, most of them highly criminal by now I presume,” Athos answered in Porthos' stead. “Sadly, some of them seem to have information about the potential whereabouts of Rochefort, possibly having dealt with him in the past.” The older man deliberately didn't look at d'Artagnan. He didn't want the young man to see in his eyes what Athos had not voiced, what 'dealing with' Rochefort included. Namely the attempted murder of d'Artagnan.

“But if it helps us, I guess it's okay?” the Gascon suggested, too naive to see the implications that could arise for Porthos, unaware of that his brother had left his old life behind not on the best of terms. 

“Yes, this is exactly how I see it,” Porthos grinned, “thank you for pointing it out again.”

“And what is the price tag for this information? What do they expect from you?” Athos had no time to be subtle anymore. As desperately as he wanted Aramis out of Rochefort's clutches, he didn't want Porthos to get involved with his old gang again, didn't want the big man to sell his soul for the information they needed. 

Porthos grinned a little more. “Well, that's the easiest part, at least if you're willing to help. Money. All they want is money, and not an insignificant amount of it. I had hoped you'd be willing to share some of your fabulous wealth.”

Athos smiled a small smile, inclining his head slightly. “It'll be my pleasure, brother. For you, and the information where we can find Aramis, anything.” 

“It's a good investment, I'm convinced,” Porthos answered. “You don't happen to have a larger amount of cash with you right now? I'll need to show them our willingness to pay for the information in the form of a little prepayment. I'm afraid they won't accept a cheque.”

Athos nodded. He always kept a significant amount of cash in Euro and dollar notes in the firm's safe together with an assortment of weapons as reserve and assurance for unexpected events. Events such as this. “We have enough in the safe.” 

D'Artagnan's phone buzzed. “Unknown number,” he said before he opened the message. He stared at the screen for a moment before he held his phone out so the other two could have a look, both men coming closer. It was another picture of Aramis, a total view, showing their friend lying on a bed or a mattress, eyes closed and seemingly unaware of the photo being taken.

Athos took the phone from the boy's outstretched hand, taking a closer look at the picture. “I can see no blood or other marks. This photo must've been taken before he was beaten. I think he is unconscious, sedated most likely.” The older man glanced up to the others. It left a bad feeling in his gut seeing his friend at Rochefort's mercy, unconscious and unaware of what was going on around him. “Looks like Rochefort has divested himself of Aramis' mobile. Maybe Tréville can track back where this came from.” 

Porthos' mobile buzzed, and with a look to the screen the big man announced with surprise in his voice, “This's from Aramis.” One swipe later another photo showing their marksman filled the screen. 

Seeing their brother stare down at the device with an angry frown, Athos and d'Artagnan craned their necks to see what was displayed. This time, Aramis stared into the camera from a close distance, only his face was visible. The marksman's pupils were unnaturally wide, the nose bleeding and one eye already starting to swell, bruises on both cheeks. Their friend's expression was hard to read, but what seemed to predominate was anger rather than fear. 

“Does he want to show us he has all our mobile numbers or is there another message hidden in sending all these pictures?” Porthos growled. 

“Both I suppose,” Athos answered, “I'll speak with Tréville.” He used his speed dial and lifted the mobile to his ear. 

Porthos shook his head. “This man's plainly sick. d'Artagnan, try to reach Anne again, Aramis was worried. He couldn't reach her since yesterday morning. If both Aramis _and_ Anne have disappeared I fear we're already running out of time,” he muttered, retreating to his office and closing the door behind him to make his calls.

Athos nodded to d'Artagnan, signaling the younger man to do what Porthos had said. “Captain, we need your help,” he started, once Tréville answered the call. “Aramis is in the hands of Rochefort who just sent us photos and messages with Aramis' mobile as well as from an unknown number. Can you get the mobiles tracked? Now?”

During his conversation Athos watched his former protégé search for the phone numbers they had from Anne, dialing them and shaking his head after each fruitless effort. 

When Porthos stepped out of his office, d'Artagnan was through with his attempts and Athos thanked Tréville and ended his call. 

“What do we have?” Porthos asked, joining his friends at Charlène's reception counter. 

“Tréville is trying to get information on the mobile's data immediately, he'll call back as soon as he has anything. He's appointing two of his officers to the search for Aramis and Rochefort, as soon as there's a hint where he might be hiding Tréville will send a task force. I told him you might get some useful information in that regard within the next two or three hours. Naturally, he said we shouldn't initiate anything on our own but pass any information on to him immediately.” Athos eyed first Porthos, then d'Artagnan. He knew how much trouble the former Minister of War had had with them in the old days, when each of them disregarded orders whenever they opposed their intentions. “Furthermore, he's waiting for information from Spanish colleagues, he's made an inquiry via Europol and it seems something on Rochefort turned up in Spain. You?”

“I'm meeting with Abdul in an hour, he might have something.”

“Might have? What game is he playing? Either he has information on Rochefort or not. He shouldn't be wasting our time,” Athos countered, a tad more aggressively than he had wanted it to come out.

“It's the way things work there. We'll meet and then he'll tell me what he has. It's our only real clue at the moment, and I'm going to grab it. I'll take the metro.” 

“I'm going with you,” d'Artagnan declared, quite certain Porthos had already forgotten he had previously told their leader they would go together. 

Athos opened his mouth to protest, but the Gascon interrupted him.

“Unless you have a more pressing task for me, I'm accompanying Porthos and we can check the addresses he gets. As soon as we've found anything we'll call you and you can send in the troops Tréville promised.” 

“Okay.” Athos nodded after a short moment, “I'll go with you. If your friend has useful hints, we might as well check them immediately.”

“No,” Porthos responded, “Abdul has agreed to meet with me, not with a task force. I'm going alone and when I'm back we can decide what we'll do. Check the information on our own or call Tréville.” The way the big man accentuated it made it clear he didn't need to decide anything in that regard. He'd already set his mind.

“Allright. Maybe Tréville will hear back from the mobile service providers in the meantime and can give us an address or at least an area where d'Artagnan and I can start a search while you meet with your friend.”

“I'll try to hack into the video surveillance system and see if I can find out where Aramis was ambushed.” In his first shock d'Artagnan had forgotten that he had, after all, means to check the streets' surveillance. They had parted on Boulevard Saint-Germain, the marksman heading down Rue de Poissy towards the Seine, and he would start there with his search. Suddenly, he couldn't wait to get to his computer and see what he could find out. “Let me know as soon as Tréville calls,” he said and disappeared into his office, his mind already focusing on the commands he would have to type on his keyboard and the strings he would have to pull.

“I'll get the money,” Athos said and made his way to the firm's safe while Porthos checked his weapon. 

After the bigger man had safely stowed away the wads of Euro notes, both men looked at each other for a moment, Porthos finally nodding. “I'll be back soon. We'll find him.”

Athos didn't respond but watched until the door had shut behind his friend, then he turned to retreat to his office, intending to try and pull a few strings himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“How did you find d'Artagnan? He had been abroad for so long, how did you get information about him?” Aramis asked, avoiding the other's gaze. Rochefort's eyes had such a shimmer of utter madness the marksman wasn't able to stand looking at it right now. Instead, he watched the other man whirl a dagger in his hand. It was not a switchblade or army knife or hunting knife. No, it was a dagger, one that looked every bit like the parrying daggers they had fought with all those years ago. Aramis wondered where one could still purchase something manufactured as skillfully as this weapon was, nowadays. Maybe Rochefort had stolen it from a museum. 

When no response came, the marksman darted a quick glance at Rochefort's face, taking in the blond man's eyes resting on his prey. Aramis' gaze returned to the dagger. Rochefort had not yet made use of the blade, had not cut or stabbed his prisoner once. Richelieu's former spy and right hand man had stuck to using his fists to cause injuries and pain to his captive, though no grave wounds had been inflicted on him yet, he had not heard bones crack so far. Aramis had lacerations, one or two still oozing blood, and lots of bruises, but either they weren't too painful or whatever Rochefort had injected was dimming the pain. Once, the man had hit hard enough for the Musketeer to black out for some time. Time, Aramis was sure, Rochefort had made good use of to infuse another dose of muscle relaxant into him, for when he had come to again he had felt numb and incapable of moving his limbs again. 

“Why not?” Rochefort suddenly said. “You're going to die anyway, I can at least see to it that you don't die a clueless man,” the blond man sneered, pointing the dagger at Aramis' face. “I can see you're dying to know how I was able to find the Gascon before you.” He squinted his eyes, looking the former Musketeer up and down. Then the man's eyes widened in understanding. “You did search for him, didn't you? I did you a favor by killing the father, right? Sending the boy running to you.” A wicked smiled crept over Rochefort's face. “You might never have found him without me, and now it's too late to revive what brotherly feelings the lot of you shared before.” 

“Spill, Rochefort, just get it over with,” Aramis remarked wearily. He was tired of listening to Rochefort's ramblings and accusations, tired of being beaten without a chance to hit back, tired of dealing with this madman again when rightfully he should never have walked this earth again. But most importantly he was tired and worn out from whatever medication it was that dazed his body. Sadly, or blessedly, depending on which way you looked at it, it wasn't enough to daze the fathomless worry and fear for Anne and her child. This was the reason why he put every effort into making his counterpart talk whenever the shorter man showed up in the room. Eventually, Rochefort would let slip something which could help Aramis to finesse the man and get away. This the marksman firmly believed. 

“It was pure luck when I stumbled over Monsieur d'Artagnan. Or rather that he ran across me, when my car broke down in the middle of nowhere. He was a very helpful man, poor soul. Once he had introduced himself as Monsieur d'Artagnan, and I hadn't asked him to do so, mind you, his fate was sealed. I was curious and very soon found out about the lovely wife and the good son, Charles. The rest was a piece of cake. I couldn't believe my luck, the four of you literally handed to me on a silver platter.”

“Why didn't you just kill us, Rochefort? You already knew about me, Athos and Porthos, didn't you? Somehow you even had managed to get hold of one of the firm's business cards, so you already must have been close to us. Why not come after us and snuff out our lives without having to kill an innocent bystander?” Aramis lifted his head to see Rochefort's reaction.

“Where would've been the fun in it?” Rochefort answered, striding up to Aramis to stand before him. “Besides, who says I wasn't just on my way to do so?” The man's dagger made contact with Aramis' chin, lifting the marksman's head so he had to look Rochefort in the eye. “Is it eating away at you, all the information I had collected about you and your brothers, Anne, her husband, the child? While you've been oblivious of it all?” The man's normally light blue eyes shone like dark coals in the twilight of the room, glazed with hatred and madness. “All the time, I've been one step ahead of you, and this time I'll succeed! This time you and your brothers will be the ones who'll die, I'll be the one giving you all the coup de grâce,” Rochefort snarled, froth forming at the corners of his mouth. He pulled the dagger away with a swift motion so it cut Aramis' skin, the gash immediately leaking blood.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tréville had called only a few minutes before Porthos informed Athos he was on his way back with two addresses, requesting his brothers be ready to accompany him to check on the possible hideouts. Athos reported that the commissioner was coming to the office with information and they would make battle plans together as soon as all four men were there. Porthos grumbled but obeyed and promised his brother to hear out what Tréville had to say and not go checking the houses on his own. 

Tréville and Porthos reached the office together and were greeted by Charlène who was back from her prolonged lunch break. She still looked visibly shocked after Athos had explained to her earlier what had happened to Aramis. The men gathered in the meeting room, Tréville immediately handing out paper printouts 

“I understand you have information about Rochefort's possible whereabouts?” Tréville addressed Porthos, seating himself opposite the bigger man.

“Aye, and I'd check them sooner rather than later, so we should get this over with here quickly.”

“Patience, Porthos, let's not rush this. We all know what a dangerous man Rochefort is. I have a special forces unit ready to storm houses and free hostages if need be, but we have to check every bit of information thoroughly first. It's not as if we're still living in the old times,” the _commissaire_ muttered, more to himself, thinking of all the papers and requests he had to fill out before he could give orders to storm a house or even arrest someone, the district attorney always breathing down his neck.

“I don't need anyone to storm a house and free Aramis. I have the addresses and I'm going,” Porthos replied heatedly, though his anger was not directed at Tréville, but rather his own failure in keeping his brother from walking away after the discussion with Athos.

“Porthos, we'll need any help we can get to find Aramis, so let's hear what the captain has to say and then we'll go. We _will_ get him back,” Athos responded in a calm voice, looking intently at his friend. 

“Allright,” Porthos grumbled, “let's hear what you've found out, captain.”

“The printouts are the material I received this afternoon from the Spanish police, there are interesting facts about Rochefort's time in Spanish prisons as well as a long list of connections to the criminal underworld he has established. It's a network all over Europe and I'm certain there's vital information about his Parisian contacts as well. I've only scanned it so far but it looks very promising.” He glanced at each of the men, continuing with his report. “I've received data from the mobile service provider. Aramis' mobile is turned off at the moment, as was to be expected, but we have knowledge of two areas it was activated today after he left you on Boulevard Saint-Germain. The last time it was activated it logged in at the base station in Rue Michelet in La Défense.” Tréville produced a map where he circled the area the base station in Rue Michelet roughly supplied. “This is where the last signal came from at 15:24 o'clock, about three quarters of an hour ago. When was it one of you received the last message from his phone?” 

A knock on the door interrupted the men before either could respond. Charlène appeared in the door frame. “Sorry to interrupt, but Madame Autriche is here and she insists she must speak with you.” Though offered in a neutral tone, Athos could hear the annoyance ringing in his secretary's voice; she apparently disapproved of the men being interrupted in their briefing by someone seeking her missing husband while one of their own was captured and missing. Charlène’s priorities were clear in that regard. 

“It's okay, let her in,” Athos answered.

Charlène gestured to the reception area where Madame Autriche waited, closing the door behind her once Anne had entered the room. 

Anne took two steps into the room before stopping dead in her tracks. 

Seeing Madame Autriche entering the office, all the men, maybe out of old habit, rose --

“Captain Tréville,” Anne greeted baffled,

\-- and froze --

“and my loyal Musketeers,” she added fondly.

\-- and stared. Then they all stared a little longer. The Gascon was the first to shake out of his stupor and bow before his queen, muttering reverently, “Your majesty.”

“Oh no, please, I'm no one's majesty now. Don't do this!” Anne approached d'Artagnan, touching his shoulder lightly to urge him up from his deference. “Please.” 

Both Athos and Porthos blinked, still speechless.

Tréville cleared his throat. “It's hard to not see the queen in you, your majesty,” he said, finally having regained his composure, though everyone could see how touched he was seeing the queen again. 

Anne looked over at Tréville, a smile spreading on her face, moved by the former Minister's words. Everyone could see she was touched as well by seeing her most loyal servants and friends again.

Athos finally found words to vocalize what was the most pressing point. “Madame, it seems you remember us. May I ask how and for how long? We've been trying to reach you for some days.” The former _comte_ came round from behind the desk, belatedly realizing he had been impolite in his shock about the queen's revelations. Unable to refrain from at least bowing his head slightly with due deference, he pointed to a chair. “Please, take a seat.” 

Anne looked around. “Where is Monsieur Esp--, where is Aramis? Is he not here?”

Athos shared a quick glance with Tréville. Stalling the moment he would have to tell her about Aramis and Rochefort, he once more invited Anne to take a seat. “Please, sit down so we can talk about everything.”

Anne sat down as gracefully and regally as she had done when she had been the Queen of France, looking expectantly to the men who scattered around her. “I had to undergo a minor surgery,” she picked up the conversation, “nothing serious, but it required anesthesia which I don't respond to well. When I woke up in the intensive care unit, I wasn't the same as I was before.”

She didn't offer more, and there was no need to. Every man in the room had experienced the same one way or the other, waking up or coming to after an accident, surgery, injury. In a split second their lives had changed, and they all had had to come to terms with it somehow. Besides, for all of them, she still _was_ the queen, and the queen never had to explain herself. They could only guess the struggle she had had to go through to accept the new situation.

“That explains why we couldn't reach you,” Athos countered to what Anne had just told them, wittingly skipping the topic of the queen's stay in hospital. He knew enough of French history to remember how and why Queen Anne of Austria had died in 1666. Having regained her memory after a minor surgery certainly had to do with the same or a similar ailment she had suffered back in the old days. He dearly hoped for another outcome in this century, though. 

“I'm sorry I didn't let you know in advance, but it was at such short notice I wasn' t mindful of informing you. I left Monsieur Espa--,” she halted, “I left Aramis a message on his mobile this morning when I realized he had tried to reach me repeatedly.”

The men shared glances which didn't go unnoticed by Anne. “What is it and where _is_ Aramis? Do speak!”

“He was taken hostage.” Athos shot another glance towards Tréville, who nodded slightly. “He was taken hostage by Rochefort and Rochefort is also in possession of Aramis' mobile.”

The shock and disbelief spreading over Anne's features was visible to everyone, but she kept quiet, waiting for Athos to go on. 

“We also believe he is behind the disappearance of your husband. If he has identified all of us, he certainly knows about you as well. Furthermore, he killed d'Artagnan's father, which brought d'Artagnan to Paris in the first place, and he is most definitely behind an attempt on the boy's life some days ago. He is very dangerous and we believe you and your child are in grave danger. Therefore it's all the better that you came to us now, remembering your former life. We were just in the process of making plans to free Aramis and capture Rochefort. Your safety, however, is top priority. Aramis would never forgive any of us if something should happen to you or your child,” Athos added with sincerity, utterly aware of the truth behind his words.

Silence settled in the room after Athos' short report, the men giving the former queen time to think about the new situation. 

“So, Rochefort is back, too,” Anne murmured, breaking the stillness. “That's a shock. Do you think Antoine is dead? Has Rochefort killed him?” 

“We can't be sure, but it's most likely. D'Artagnan found footage from CCTV surveillance showing Rochefort, apparently observing your husband's apartment. Either he's holding him captive somewhere or he has already killed him. We must expect the worst,” Athos replied truthfully, adding, “I'm sorry.”

“Do you think he killed Aramis as well?” Her voice wavered with emotion, though she was able to keep her expression void of feelings. 

“No,” Porthos replied quickly with a determination typical of the big man. “Aramis is alive and now we're going to get him.” He glowered at Tréville.

Their former captain and minister nodded slightly after holding the other's gaze for a moment. “Yes, that's what we are doing. Yet there's still the question where Aramis is being kept and where we should start the search. What addresses did you get from your source?”

“There's one on Rue Debain north of the 18th _arrondissement_ and one on Rue Marat in Ivry-sur-Seine.”

Tréville circled both streets after a moment of studying the map and searching the streets. All the men looked down at the map, seeing the distances between the circle the captain had drawn around the base station in La Défense and the street names Porthos had mentioned. They were as far apart as was possible within the city limits of Paris.

“What next,” d'Artagnan asked skeptically, “do we split up?”


	16. Will your time run out?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They left the police station together, Porthos and d'Artagnan heading off south to the nearest metro station, while Tréville and Athos turned to the parking lot to climb into one of the unmarked cars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Real life is not cooperating at the moment. ;-)

Chapter 16  
~Will your time run out?~

“No,” Athos growled, “we're not splitting up, at least _you_ will not go anywhere without someone accompanying you. Captain,” he addressed Tréville, ignoring the glowering Gascon for the moment, “how many men can you assign for a search in La Défense?” 

“I had hoped at least one of the addresses Porthos received would be within the area of the mobile phone base station. I've no idea where we should start a search without any hints. I can order two men to check the area for any signs of a hiding place for Rochefort. One man is already checking the surveillance footage of the area. What about the other two addresses we have?”

“We'll check both of them for signs of Rochefort or Aramis. If we find something, we'll ask for police reinforcements. Unless there's imminent danger....,“ Athos added, letting the implication of what that statement comprised hang in the air between them.

“You know I can't approve this,” Tréville replied, raising his hand to stop both Athos and Porthos from vocalizing their protest, “but I also know whatever I say or order, you'll go anyway. In your function as private investigators I can't dictate to you, not unless you interfere with police investigations. Promise you'll inform me before you try to free Aramis on your own. I can send the special forces unit to back you up.”

“Aye, captain.”

“I promise we will,” Athos added to Porthos' reply. “What's with the information from Spain? Anything we need to know before we check the possible hideouts?”

“I've not read everything in detail yet and some reports are in Spanish. In summary, Rochefort spent many years in Spanish prisons where he seems to have made acquaintances with a number of criminal masterminds. It is suspected that he is a member of at least two criminal networks operating in Europe. While you go check the addresses I'll go through the connections mentioned in Paris. I assume he needs a lot of support and manpower for his machinations, eventually someone will turn up whom we can put through the mill.”

“Captain Tréville,” Anne suddenly uttered, having been listening to the men's discussion for a long while without saying anything, “I'd really like to help. Maybe I can go through the reports as well and see if anything catches my eye. Especially if some of the reports are in Spanish.” She looked around hesitantly. “I still speak Spanish fluently.” 

Tréville eyed Anne for a moment. “Thank you, I think we can use any help we can get. I would have to organize a translator for the Spanish papers otherwise.”

“Where is Henri?” Athos asked, finally coming back to what had stuck at the back of his mind all the time. “We need to get you and your son into safety as long as we don't know where Rochefort is.”

Anne's eyes widened. “He's with a friend of mine, she offered to babysit him while I came to see you.” She rose from her chair, turning to Tréville. “Do you think he is in danger? At this moment?” Fear lingered in her voice.

“I'll escort you back to your friend. It would be best if you move out of your apartment for a while; I'll have to check what safe-houses we have available at the moment. In any case you'll get a police escort for the next few days. Athos,” Tréville came back to his former second-in-command, “I trust you'll call me immediately should you find Rochefort in one of the places.” Tréville stared at Athos, leaving no question as to what he expected of the man.

Athos simply nodded, holding the older man's gaze. 

Porthos and d'Artagnan rose as well, and Anne stepped to the big man, grabbing his hand. “You'll find him and bring him back, yes?” 

What she had not put into her voice Porthos could read in Anne's eyes. Clasping her small hand with both of his, Porthos nodded. “Yes, we'll bring him home.”

“Thank you,” she whispered before turning away to follow Tréville out of the room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis came to, and it took him a moment to sort out if he had nodded off or if Rochefort had knocked him unconscious. When the haze of sleep finally lifted, he realized he must have fallen asleep. He was alone in the room. He recalled having had an unpleasant conversation with Rochefort, and the blond man had made use of his dagger a few times after Aramis might have aggravated him with some rash and inappropriate answers and suggestions. Then Rochefort had received a phone call which had not sat well with the shorter man, for he had left the room without sparing even the slightest glance at Aramis. Thereafter, sleep must have captured Aramis, and from the crusted blood on the linens he deduced that some of the wounds must still have oozed blood during his nap. They were only cuts, none of them too painful, and now that he thought about it he realized it was only distant pain he felt and that his limbs felt not as heavy and immobile as they had before. The relaxant was wearing off and Rochefort had obviously missed injecting him with a new dose. Aramis rose from the bed, his legs shaking like a newborn foal's. He looked around, assessing which of the more than sparse furnishing of the room might be suited for a weapon.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They had thoroughly checked both houses, but couldn't detect even the slightest trace that either Rochefort or Aramis had been there. None of the few people they found and were willing to talk to them at all could contribute anything of use. Both places were a dead end and had cost them almost four hours. Athos had called Tréville twice in the meantime, but their captain hadn't had good news either. At least Anne and Henri had been accommodated somewhere safe, so this was one problem less on Athos' mind. On their ride back to the office he wondered how Aramis was faring and assumed the marksman certainly was worrying himself sick over Anne and the baby. If he was still able to worry over anything; a thought Athos shoved quickly aside before it could fully bloom in his mind. 

When they entered the office they were surprised to find Charlène still there. “I was worried and thought you might need help once you returned,” she said, seeing their questioning looks. “I had hoped you'd bring him with you,” she added quietly, wringing her hands.

None of the men replied, but Porthos walked over to the secretary and patted her shoulder. “Thank you for staying, _ma douce_ , but you should go home. There's nothing you can do.”

“You could brew fresh coffee,” Athos said, staring through the open meeting room's door. “We have hours of work ahead. But then you really should go home,” he added in a soft voice, turning his head to look at Charlène.

The older woman met his gaze and held it for a moment. She could read everything she needed to know in the man's eyes. Knowing him well enough and taking the request for coffee for what it was, she nodded smilingly. “I'll bring coffee and some pastries.” 

After Charlène had left, they brainstormed for two hours, going through every bit of information they had. D'Artagnan's earlier search through the surveillance footage had discovered nothing and they had not heard again from Tréville. A quarter-hour before midnight the commissioner called and asked if they were still at the office. He joined them ten minutes later but had nothing new in regard to where Rochefort might be hiding or where Aramis was being kept. The officers who had checked the surroundings of the base station in La Défense had returned without results. Aramis' mobile had not logged into any base stations in Greater Paris again and none of the Inseparables had received more pictures or messages from Rochefort. The Spanish papers had offered a lot of insight into the past fifteen years of Rochefort's life and an alarmingly great number of crimes Rochefort was accused of, but nothing of his actual whereabouts. They were at rock bottom and the frustration in the meeting room was almost palpable. 

“What a shit!” Porthos suddenly burst out, hitting the table with his fist, “he's playing cat and mouse with us and we can't do anything!”

“I know I can't, but nevertheless I order you all to sleep. Or at least rest. You won't be able to help Aramis if you can't keep yourself awake when it matters.” Tréville rose and gathered his papers. “We'll meet at 7:00 o'clock in my office. Good night, messieurs.”

Eyeing each other bleakly, none of the remaining Inseparables rose until Athos finally announced, “I can offer drinks and accommodations.” He pondered a moment whether he should gather his papers as well but finally decided against it. What he needed to know was in his head, and all the papers had turned out to be useless in the end anyway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

None of them had slept much and if, then only fitfully, but the next morning found them halfway awake in the captain's office. 

Tréville, who looked as if he had worked through the night, had already assigned two of his men to resume the search in La Défense, another two officers were tasked with checking Rochefort's criminal connections in Paris. One of his men, young Brujon, was already sifting through surveillance footage again. 

“I'll speak with Anne,” Athos announced after a while, everyone looking up from the papers and print-outs they were studying. “She knew Rochefort back then better than any of us. Maybe she has an idea where he would hide. Or she recalls something.” Athos almost sounded like he was going to apologize for his suggestion, desperate as it was.

Tréville nodded. “I'll go with you, I can't spare an officer to accompany you and you can't go alone.”

Porthos' phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket, frowning when he read the message.

“What is it, is it from Rochefort?” Athos asked, seeing his friend furrowing his brow.

“No,” Porthos drawled, “It's a friend.”

When nothing more came from the big man, Athos pressed on. “And?”

Porthos looked up. “It's an old friend from--, well, a really old friend. I haven't heard from him in.... years.” Porthos stared back at his mobile. “He wants to meet me. He says he knew the guys who assaulted d'Artagnan. And saw their employer. He got my number from Abdul.”

“Do you trust him?” Athos asked after a moment.

“I did,” Porthos replied reluctantly. “He won't harm me, if that's what you're hinting at. I'll take d'Artagnan with me and see what he has to say.”

Athos wasn't sure it was such a good idea, letting d'Artagnan go with Porthos, but they were running out of time and desperately in need of a workable trace and Porthos was as good as any of them at protecting their youngster. 

“I'll go talk with Anne and we'll meet in the office, let's say in two hours time.”

They left the police station together, Porthos and d'Artagnan heading off south to the nearest metro station, while Tréville and Athos turned to the parking lot to climb into one of the unmarked cars.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two and a quarter hours later, Porthos stormed into Athos' office, throwing the door open with a bang. “Is he here? Is d'Artagnan here? Or has he called?” 

Athos looked up from his computer screen, stunned. “Pardon me? I thought he was with you? Why should he be here?”

“Shit!” Porthos cursed, “ _Putain de bordel de merde!_ D'Artagnan has disappeared!”

Athos rose. “WHAT?” he shouted, and suddenly their conversation's volume had increased significantly. “HE HAS WHAT?”

Porthos stared at the older man with big eyes, his chest lifting and lowering jerkily, his breath coming fitfully. 

Athos realized the big man must have run all the way to the office, from wherever it was he had lost sight of d'Artagnan. The former _comte_ pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to take a couple of calming breaths. He closed his eyes, only to open them again a second later. “How could he disappear? Where? I thought he was with you?”

“He was,” Porthos gasped out, “and then he vanished.” 

Athos let himself sink back on the chair. “Sit down,” he gestured to Porthos. “Report.”

“I told him to wait outside while I met with Florent in a bar, because Florent is a coward and would've bolted like a rabbit had he seen me entering with the boy. I expressly told the pup to stay exactly there until I was back,” Porthos growled. “I was with Florent only for 10 min, 15 at the most. When I came out again he was nowhere in sight. I looked for him in every nook and cranny and asked everyone who was in sight if they had seen him. I called his mobile, repeatedly, but every call went unanswered.” Porthos looked down at his hands. “I had hoped he would be here,” he added in a low voice. 

They both knew what it meant when d'Artagnan was neither where he should have waited for Porthos nor at the office. 

Athos rose again, gesturing to Porthos to follow him. The older man lifted his mobile to his ear, speaking as soon as the call was answered. “Captain, d'Artagnan has vanished. Can you have someone look into the CCTV footage of the area Porthos met with his friend?” He looked at Porthos, the latter immediately knowing what Athos wanted from him.

“Rue Mouffetart, the bar _La Codonnerie_ ,” Porthos reported.

“He should have been waiting outside _La Codonnerie_ on Rue Mouffetart,” Athos repeated. “We'll be with you in a few minutes.” He ended the call, turning to Porthos. “Was it, at least, worth while?”

Porthos shook his head conscience-stricken. “No, nothing we didn't know already. I'm sorry,” he muttered. 

Athos grasped the bigger man's arm, squeezing it lightly. “It's not your fault, Porthos. We must clutch at every straw.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ten minutes later they hurried into the 5th _arrondissement's_ police station, entering Tréville's office mere minutes later. 

The captain gestured to them to round the desk and take a look at his computer screen. He already had the footage they needed on his screen.

“We have nothing directly in Rue Mouffetart, but there's a camera on the crossroads a few hundred meters away from the bar. It's the only camera we have in close proximity.”

Porthos checked the time bar in the corner of the footage; it was roughly about ten minutes before he had met with Florent. “Did you see us? We came from the metro station, I think further down Rue Brassolet.”

“No, not yet,” Tréville replied, and in exactly this moment they could see d'Artagnan and Porthos cross Rue Brassolet, maybe fifty meters away from the crossroads. They hurried towards where the camera was positioned and turned left into Rue Mouffetart. 

The footage run on.

“There! Stop it there,” Athos shouted exactly 4 minutes and 32 seconds after Porthos and d'Artagnan had vanished from the screen. “That's Rochefort!”

Tréville stopped the footage and they all stared at the blond man who had entered the picture from the opposite direction the Musketeers had come from. There was no doubt it was him. 

“Go on,” Athos said, and Tréville pressed a key so they could watch Rochefort round the corner into Rue Mouffetart only seconds later. They let the footage run for more than fifteen minutes, but neither Rochefort nor d'Artagnan appeared again. They stopped the material when they saw Porthos rush out of the street, looking up and down the streets with a harried expression. 

An awkward silence settled in the room until Tréville spoke. “We must face the fact that Rochefort might have both Aramis and d'Artagnan in his clutches now. I'll have two more men assigned to the case.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We'll check all CCTV footage we have in the vicinity, he must show up again somewhere.”

Porthos avoided looking at the other men. Both could see the guilt weighing down the big man's broad shoulders. 

“It's been 24 hours since Aramis was taken captive by Rochefort. We haven't heard or received anything from him for 20 hours,” Athos stated quietly to the room at large. “We _have_ to find them!”

“Let's hope the queen's idea brings something.”

“What idea?” Porthos asked, looking over to Tréville.

“She had the idea Rochefort might be drawn back to his old places of activity. He deliberately chose the vicinity of the Bastille to try and kill d'Artagnan. Anne suggested we should check the vicinity of the Red Guards' garrison or at Richelieu's quarters. Another option could be the brothel Rochefort frequently visited, though neither Anne nor I have knowledge of where the exact address is nowadays. We started with the Red Guards headquarters.”

“That makes sense,” Porthos replied, “Rochefort is---” He was interrupted.

Brujon rushed in without knocking. “Sir, we have him,” he hollered excitedly. “We've just found him on footage, leaving and returning to a house in Rue de Chareton in the 12th _arrondissement_. It's close to where the ancient Red Guards garrison was, just as you said.” 

“Finally,” Porthos shouted, hurrying after the others to the war room. 

What followed there was a short but fierce discussion between Tréville and Athos about responsibility and authority. The officers present ducked their heads and acted as if they were busy and not listening, Porthos planted his full muscular body mass beside Athos, arms crossed over his broad chest, staring sternly at the captain. 

Finally, Tréville gave in. “You can go with Danglard and Retancourt, and you'll obey their every order. You will not go in alone and you go on your own risk. If you are shot, either by Rochefort or any of my men, you alone are responsible for it. If you put Aramis and d'Artagnan in danger with rash actions, it's your responsibility.”

“Never,” Athos declared, accentuating every single word, “would Porthos or I put either of our brothers in danger.”

Tréville sighed. “I know. I'm sorry. But you must understand my position. I'm no longer your captain, you're not under my command and I can't let civilians join a police operation. However, I'll back you, this once. I know how hard it is for you,” he added in a softer voice. 

“Thank you, captain,” Porthos answered, and the matter was settled.

“I'll get the necessary approval from the state attorney and inform the que--, Madame Autriche that we finally have a trace. Either I'll see you at the operation site or later at the office. Keep me informed. Good luck!” Tréville turned to give his officers last instructions while Athos and Porthos checked their weapons, mistrustfully eyed by the policemen around them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

One special unit joined them on their way to Rue de Chareton, so all in all they were six police officers and two Musketeers. The police officers worked surprisingly well together with Porthos and Athos. Either Tréville had put in a good word for them or used his position, at any rate, Retancourt made quick work of tasking each man with a section of the house, all going in in pairs. Then they entered the building. 

They had checked two rooms in the basement, both unlocked and uninhabited, when they reached a locked door. Porthos made short work of it and kicked the door which caved in after the first kick and flung open. The big man stepped through the frame with his weapon raised in front of him, only to immediately duck under something swinging towards him, aiming for his head. Athos, who was right behind his brother, pointed his gun at the assailant's face, ready to shoot. A split second later he lowered his weapon. “Aramis,” Athos rasped, closing the distance to his friend and embracing him in a quick hug. “Good to see you.” 

Porthos came up and grinned at Aramis, hugging him as soon as Athos had let go. He felt Aramis' legs give way and intensified the grasp he had on his friend. “Are you hurt?” he asked the marksman, “I mean, besides what is obvious to the eye.” 

“No. Damn muscle relaxant, my legs are still like jelly, but the arms are working again,” Aramis replied before he all but collapsed in Porthos' arms. 

Athos raised a brow, a smile tugging at his lips. “Is d'Artagnan here with you?”

“D'Artagnan? No. Why?” The marksman asked surprised. “You two were the first to show up here.”

Athos and Porthos exchanged glaces which did not go unnoticed by Aramis. “Where is he? Didn't he come with you?”

“We had hoped he would be here with you. It seems Rochefort has managed to abduct him as well.”

“ _Merde!_ ” Aramis swore. “I've lost a little track of time, but I think Rochefort hasn't been here for some hours. I've not heard or seen anything and there's no one else here beside me. At least as far as I know.”

From above they could hear the “all clear” shouts from the other officers and soon Danglard joined them in the basement, reporting no other person had been found in the whole complex. 

“ _Mince alors!_ ” Porthos hollered, his joy upon finding Aramis dimmed by the prospect that d'Artagnan was still somewhere in the clutches of Rochefort.

Athos' mobile vibrated. “It's Charlène,” he stated after fishing it out of his pocket. He pondered a moment if he should answer the call or call back later. 

Aramis motioned towards Athos he should take the call, then he swayed, grasping at Porthos for support. Porthos caught the smaller man round the shoulders, guiding him back to the small bed. “You look a little worse for wear, _mon ami,_ ” he stated, turning his head towards Athos whose voice had gained volume while speaking with Charlène.

“What do you--,” Athos stilled for a second, “bloody hell, WHERE ARE YOU!”

Aramis and Porthos looked taken aback. Certainly their well-bred leader wasn't shouting at his secretary? Both men shared a quick glance. 

“D'Artagnan, what in the bloody world don't you understand when Porthos tells you to wait for him and NOT MOVE FROM THE SPOT!”

_Ah, that explains the raised voice,_ Aramis thought, though he still had no idea what was going on between Athos and their pup. He looked up at Porthos for an explanation, but the bigger man just shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention to Athos again.

Athos meanwhile was pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, probably once more feeling a headache rising. Aramis realized he had seen the older man making this gesture quite often recently, and he wondered if it was out of a newly gained habit or if it could possibly have something to do with their young Gascon. 

“You'll stay exactly where you are until we pick you up. Did you get that? – No. No matter if Rochefort leaves the house or not. Do you understand me? – No! I don't care if we'll lose track of him again, we've just rescued Aramis, so I don't – yes, Aramis is safe, he's right beside me. I don't care about Rochefort at the moment. What I care about is not losing you ag– I... no-- Don't you dare--!” Athos stared at the phone in his hand, then to where his brothers were watching him. “He hung up on me.” The utter disbelief in the older man's voice almost made Aramis laugh, despite their current situation. 

“He did, in all seriousness, hang up on me!”

“Where is he, what happened?” Porthos wanted to know.

“He chased Rochefort. And tracked him to some place d'Artagnan has no idea where it is.”

“What?” Aramis asked, trying to make sure he had heard right.

“Apparently Rochefort walked by where d'Artagnan was supposed to wait for Porthos. D'Artagnan being d'Artagnan he thought it best to follow Rochefort without informing anyone. When he finally thought about letting us know he realized that he must've lost his phone. But even this didn't stop him from still trailing Rochefort through Paris. Unfortunately our Gascon farm boy has no idea where he is now, but at least he memorized the name of the metro station they left at. He called from a phone booth and as far as I understood Rochefort has just left the house again.” Athos stopped to draw breath. “I swear if he's not waiting beside this telephone booth I'll kill him myself if Rochefort hasn't already done the job.”

Athos raised his phone again and dialed.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged more meaningful glances. 

“Charlène, do me a favor. Try to reach Tréville and ask--,” Athos was interrupted and listened for a moment. “Oh, he is? Ask him---” Again he stopped mid-sentence, waiting. “Captain,” he picked up, “we've found Aramis and--”

From their leader's thunderous look they could guess this was getting annoying for Athos, being interrupted mid-sentence again and again. Aramis was on the brink of snickering.

“Right, then you might also already know that d'Artagnan called. Can you track back from where he called? He has lost his mobile and no idea where he is, at least he knows they left at the station Alexandre Dumas, so they must be somewhere around there. Oh, he followed Rochefort, if I've forgotten to mention. I told him to stay there until we pick him up.” Athos listened to what Tréville said, furrowing his brow. “Yes, I know. It's exactly what I fear. So try to get that damn phone booth's location! We're as good as on our way.” Athos hung up and turned to his brothers. “Can you walk?” he addressed Aramis. 

Before the marksman could answer, Danglard, who had loitered at the door, asked, “Should I call an ambulance, sir?”

Aramis shook his head. “No, get me to the office. You can patch me up there, Porthos,” he said, using Porthos' left arm to haul himself up. “Lead the way,” he prompted Athos.

Porthos deliberately ignored the fact that, as soon as they had seated themselves in the back of the police car and the marksman had gulped down a half bottle of water, Aramis' head drifted towards the bigger man's shoulder where it stayed the entire time. Porthos was certain the marksman didn't fall asleep throughout the ride, yet he could feel the exhaustion pouring out of every fiber. Another sign of Aramis' fatigue was the fact that only a few minutes before they reached the office did he ask about Anne.

“Porthos,” Aramis mumbled, “have you reached Anne? I couldn't reach her before I....., errm, was.... you know. Did you try?”

Porthos patted the other's leg. “Don't worry, she and the baby are safe. We've talked to her.” Before Porthos could reveal more, the car came to a halt outside LaFère Security and Porthos got out, hauling Aramis with him. 

“God, Porthos, I'm tired. I'm not sure what it was Rochefort injected me, but it has worn me out. I need a coffee,” Aramis moaned. Together they entered the building, trailing behind Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The places, streets, locations etc. I use in this story are as accurate and real as I remember them from visits or was able to locate through maps and plans; some bars and restaurants I've made up or switched their locations – and I have no knowledge about CCTV in Paris, that's definitely made up by me! I couldn't find anything on the Red Guards garrison back in 1630, however, I found a source telling me that the _Caserne des Mousquetaires-Noirs_ was/is located in the Rue de Charenton ( _Mousquetaires-Noirs_ apparently are the real “Red Guards”; historically both regiments were founded as Musketeers and split up later, the “grey musketeers” becoming known as the royal house guard while the “black musketeers” were Cardinal Richelieu/Mazarin's private guard; the name black and grey musketeers coming from the horses the regiments rode – the Cardinal's guard was equipped with black horses, the king's guard with dappled-grey horses). Anyway, what I understood with my poor French skills is that this _caserne_ , which is still standing and can be visited, was built between 1699-1701, so it can't be the garrison Anne and Trévillle are referring to. However, let's pretend it is, because it's the only thing I found resembling the show's Red Guard Garrison.


	17. Take the first shot cause that's all you're gonna get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos froze, feeling the sharp tip of the blade cutting his skin. His eyes shifted to Porthos.

Chapter 17

~Take the first shot cause that's all you're gonna get~

When they poured into the office, Athos leading the way, Aramis took a moment longer than usual to take in the scene before him, then he stopped dead in his tracks. Charlène, standing in front of the reception desk, cooed down at the baby in her arms. Obviously Anne's baby, for Madame Autriche stood beside Charlène, tickling the baby to make it laugh. Tréville lingered in the background, speaking into his phone and only throwing a short glance towards the returning men. Aramis felt Porthos brush by him, but all he had eyes for was Anne who had turned to him, her face growing serious upon seeing the injuries visible on his face. “Madame Autriche,” Aramis gasped, his surprise at seeing her here now audible in the voice. 

Anne took a hesitant step towards the once Musketeer-turned-lover. “Aramis, I'm so glad they found you and brought you back,” she said, taking in the battered condition the marksman was in. 

Aramis sucked in air, his gaze switching from Anne to his brothers. _Had he heard right?_ Athos face was an unreadable mask, but Porthos grinned, and it was all Aramis needed to see. He looked back to Anne, tilting his head. “Your majesty!”

Anne stepped into Aramis' personal space, her hand coming up to touch the bruises on the cheek. “No majesty,” she whispered, “but yours.”

Every ounce of oxygen seemed to have fled the room, leaving Aramis light-headed and dazed. He drowned in the woman's eyes in front of him, the woman who gazed at him with such longing and love it almost hurt to look at. He wasn't sure what Anne had detected in his eyes, but when she tilted her head slightly, her mouth just a hairsbreadth away from his, his uninjured hand came up to curl around Anne's neck and he closed the distance between his lips and hers. He didn't care who witnessed how he kissed the woman he had loved through time and space. Today there was no treason he could be accused of, and if it were, it wouldn't matter. The earth heaved from its axis for the tiniest of moments, and time stood still. 

Anne pressed closer, though Aramis could feel her reluctance to let her feelings run freely in front of others, even if she was no queen anymore, even if nothing was at stake, here and now. Aramis deepened the kiss and it was an old yet new experience bringing such an anticipation of completeness and blessedness that he never wanted to open his eyes again nor part from the woman he loved more than anything else. His heart hurt and his stomach somersaulted and his head filled with sparkling lights, and then he felt another desire arising and he knew it was time to draw back. He ended the kiss and lingered a moment longer, his eyes resting on the lips he had parted from only a second ago. Finally he took half a step back, leaving his hand around her waist, his right hand moving from her neck to rest on her shoulder. Lightly he stroked his thumb across her skin, where the collarbone met the throat, consciously refraining from looking at the others, because he could virtually _feel_ Porthos chuckle and Athos frown. “Anne,” he whispered, and just like that he realized he had longed his entire adult life to let this name tumble over his lips again.

Anne beamed at him and it made her whole face shine like a diamond, cheeks rosy, eyes bright, lips alluring. “You're wounded,” she repeated, touching the swollen skin around his eye, then trailed the cut on his right cheek, her fingers scratching over the beard stubble.

“It's nothing,” Aramis mumbled, catching her hand with his.

The baby in Charlène's arms gurgled, and Aramis tuned back in to the noises around him. Actually, Porthos _was_ chuckling, and Athos harrumphed. 

“We still have work to do, Aramis, I'm sure there will be time later where you two can catch up on.... everything.” Their steely leader looked almost a little uncomfortable, though the smirk on his face somewhat dimmed that expression. “We have to collect d'Artagnan and patch you up.” He nodded towards the conference room. “Porthos, can you fetch the first aid kit?"

Tréville finished his phone call and grinned at Aramis. “It's good to see you.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Careful, Porthos,” Aramis hissed when the big man dabbed a pad, soaked with an antiseptical solution, to the cuts on Aramis face. 

“Don't be pathetic,” Pothos replied unmoved, continuing with his task. “As far as I can assess none of these cuts need stitching.” He hesitated a moment. “Unless you've more cuts hidden under your clothing?” His eyes run skeptically over Aramis' body.

Aramis shook his head, grabbing Porthos' wrist to stop him from adding more solution to his smarting skin. “No, there aren't. Just give me plasters to cover the worst of them.” Aramis looked at his grazed knuckles, flexing his fingers a few times. Since the muscle relaxant had almost completely worn off he could take stock of where he hurt and what was injured. Unexpectedly enough, it wasn't much, or at least not as grave as he had supposed he would end up after being confronted with Rochefort. Something about the lack of severe injuries, however, nagged at the marksman's mind. It was unlikely for Rochefort to let Aramis off the hook as unharmed as he was, even if the rescue had come unexpectedly for the man. Or had it not? He shrugged off the uneasy feeling that something was wrong when he saw Anne lingering in the doorway. He still couldn't believe his luck having her back. But as long as Rochefort was still out there, Anne was not safe, and therefore they needed to catch the man and bring him to justice. Or kill him. Aramis didn't mind which; in fact, he preferred the latter. 

“I have the address, it's a telephone booth in Rue Monte-Cristo,” Tréville called through the reception area and Athos rose from his chair where he had been watching Porthos taking care of Aramis. 

“I'll go and get him,” the older man said, patting Aramis on the shoulder on his way out. “When I'm back we'll go through the Spanish papers again, there must be something leading to a source of information here in Paris, or another hideout.”

Tréville pocketed his phone, addressing Anne. “I'll take you back to the safe-house on my way to the office.”

“Captain,” Athos interrupted, shrugging into his jacket, “do you have men detailed to observe the hideout in Rue de Chareton?”

“Yes, and once d'Artagnan informs us where it is he tracked Rochefort to, we'll observe the place as well. Maybe I should send an officer to go with you, and d'Artagnan can show you the address right away,” Tréville pondered.

The telephone at the reception started ringing and Charlène hurried past Athos to get the call.

“It can't be so damn hard to find this man!” Athos declared, “We've so much footage and--”

“Athos,” Charlène interrupted, “it's d'Artagnan.” She held the handset towards her boss. 

Athos hesitated a second or two, dreading what he was going to hear, then grabbed the receiver, pushing the speaker button so everyone else could listen to the conversation. “Where are you?” he demanded in a harsh voice.

“Athos? I'm at the metro station _Palais-Royal_ , um, at the Louvre. I've lost sight of Rochefort, but he definitely left the train here. He must've taken one of the stairways. There's a direct access to the Louvre from here, you know,” d'Artagnan needlessly pointed out what was well-known to everyone in the office. 

A knot formed in Athos' stomach and he could see Tréville tense. “Don't move from where you are, do you hear me? We're on our way. Don't try to find him again, don't move from the spot, just once do as I say! Wait until we're there!”

“Yes, but Athos, what if I--”

D'Artagnan's voice broke off, faint noises swooshing through the receiver.

“D'Artagnan?” Athos furrowed his brow, looking to the others. “D'ARTAGNAN!” 

They listened to the background noises of a busy metro station for another half minute before the line went dead. Then a flurry of activity started. 

Aramis and Porthos, who had listened from the open conference room door made their ways to their workplaces, Aramis to switch into one of the spare shirts he kept in his office, Porthos to get more ammo for his gun. 

Tréville gestured to Anne to collect her child and get ready to leave, mobile already at his ear to order some of his men to the Louvre. 

Athos shrugged out of his jacket again and buckled his shoulder-holster, which he had taken off earlier, back into place. “Charlène, if d'Artagnan calls again, try to put it through to any of our mobiles and tell him he should stay exactly where he is. Preferably hidden from Rochefort,” he added wryly.

Tréville ended his call. He had not yet figured out how to work around addressing the former queen, so he simply stuck with a formal madame. “Madame, I've asked one of my officers to pick you up here and take you to the safe-house. I'd rather accompany the others to the Louvre.” Before Anne could respond, his phone buzzed again. He lifted the mobile to his ear, listening to the caller for a minute without interrupting his counterpart, visibly paling. Then he answered, “Dear God. I'll be in the office in five minutes.” Slowly he lowered the hand holding the mobile. 

All eyes stared at the captain, waiting for an explanation.

Tréville cleared his throat. “It seems there's been an explosion at or in the Louvre. They are clearing the Louvre now.” 

After a moment's silence, Athos asked, “Do you think it's Rochefort?”

“I've no idea. The reports have been vague so far, but it seems there's smoke developing between the metro station and the underground access to the Louvre.”

In the quiet of the room following the _commissaire's_ statement, they could hear the buzzing of an incoming sms. Athos fished his phone from his pocket. “It's your number, Aramis,” he announced dryly and not even surprised, swiping over the screen. He read the message before he repeated it for the others. “Come to the Louvre and bring the queen if you want to avert a bloodbath. The boy is already here. Come alone.”

“I'll go.”

All eyes turned to the former queen.

“No, you won't,” Aramis stated immediately.

“He is capable of killing dozens of innocent bystanders if you show up there without me,” Anne countered, turning towards Tréville.

“Exactly,” Aramis responded in a strained voice, anger and fear struggling for supremacy. “He is capable, capable of killing without hesitation. You will not go!” He was bare short of shouting. 

“Aramis is right. The risk is too high and we never respond to demands from hostage-takers or terrorists under any circumstances.”

“Instead you'd rather risk the lives of innocent bystanders? Tourists at the museum? Mothers and children?” Anne asked, her voice not giving away whether she was annoyed or surprised.

“We always weigh each risk, but it's common practice, the more so if we're dealing with terrorists. We can never respond to such demands. Furthermore, we don't know what the situation is right now at the Louvre. He only spoke of d'Artagnan. We must get more information before we can decide and act.” Tréville made clear the discussion was finished, though he knew he wouldn't be able to shake off the Inseparables. Truth be told, he was counting on that fact.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Only because of her child who needed to eat and sleep, Anne had returned to the safe-house, holding Tréville accountable for letting her know what was going on at the Louvre. She had once more signaled her readiness to go and meet with Rochefort and Tréville had once more declined. 

Before they had left the office, Aramis had taken her to the side and uttered some softspoken words in a hushed voice. Then they had parted with a kiss.

During the short briefing at the police station more news had reached them, telling of a confirmed hostage situation at the Louvre and a small fire which had been extinguished in the meantime. Two museum attendants had been found dead. Tréville gave the order to seal the whole complex off and wait until he had arrived with his men, arguing for a couple of moments with the responsible on-scene commander. Then they all left the commissariat.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They entered through a side door, their footsteps resounding painfully loudly in the empty halls. As was usual in crises and emergencies, the main power had been shut down and only auxiliary lighting and the blue lights flashing from outside illuminated the abandoned rooms and hallways. 

Athos had often visited the Louvre, in the cold days of November, when only a few tourists found their way to Paris or sometimes in the hottest days of August, when every Parisian fled the city and only tourists crowded the capital's streets. He knew his way around here. On their way up, they passed the Winged Nike of Samothrace, a sculpture Athos tended to think of as the greatest masterpiece of Hellenistic sculpture, and one of his favorite work of arts in the _musée du Louvre._ They turned left on the stairways, entering the first floor and what once had been the west-wing of the royal palace. Nowadays it was called – and if the situation hadn't been as grave as it was, Athos had laughed about the coincidence – the Richelieu wing. At the end of the landing they halted for a moment, looking at each other. 

“Do you all remember where the queen's bed chamber was?” Athos asked, receiving affirmative nods from both his companions. “Then let's head that way. I'm certain it's where we'll find him.”

Athos' assumption was confirmed when halfway through the Richelieu wing, just as they had passed da Vinci's _Mona Lisa_ smiling innocently at them, a few crying and shocked visitors came running their way, shouting for help. Athos managed to catch one of them by the arm. “Calm down, man, and tell me where he is.”

The man looked at Athos with eyes widened by shock, raising a quivering arm to point in the direction they'd come from. “He--, he's there in the, um, Napoleon's apartments. He let us go, only the boy had to stay,” the man stuttered, the words hardly comprehensible, “he has a gun and other weapons.” 

“Go, the police are waiting outside,” Athos urged the man, shoving him in the direction the others had already disappeared. They had been right. It was the queen's reception room where they would once more have to face Rochefort.

Silently they moved on.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The door that once had led to the queen's rooms and bed chamber stood slightly ajar. Athos made two quick motions with his hand, signaling his brothers how they would proceed, then they entered the room, weapons raised.

Rochefort had his left arm slung firmly around d'Artagnan's upper body, the hand with the knife pressed to the young man's throat. The Musketeers could see the vein that supplied d'Artagnan's brain with blood pressing against the blade with every beat of the heart, a thin line of blood already running down the neck where the knife had grazed the skin. 

“Where's the queen?” Rochefort asked, sounding genuinely surprised the Musketeers had come without Anne. 

“Not here and she isn't coming,” Aramis replied, eyeing the other man. Rochefort showed not the merest hint of astonishment seeing Aramis here. He must already have known the marksman had been able to escape. An interesting fact Aramis stowed away for later.

“I expressly told you to bring her with you,” Rochefort snarled angrily, “Do you think this is a game?”

“Your game, Rochefort, at least, is over. The queen will not come, you will never lay eyes on her again. You may as well release d'Artagnan now and we can end this here, without bloodshed,” Athos replied calmly.

Rochefort laughed. “You must be crazy if you think even one of you will walk away from here alive. It doesn't matter if Anne is here or not. You'll die and I'll get to her later. You could have made this easier by bringing her along, but it's all the same for me. You only spared her having to watch her loyal Musketeers die, one after the other.“ He increased the pressure on d'Artagnan's neck and they could see the young man's eyes open wide in fright. 

Athos raised his hands. “Why don't you let d'Artagnan go and we'll sort this out like honorable men?”

“Oh, we will fight this out, rest assured. But first you'll get rid of your weapons, including the hidden ones. Slowly now,” Rochefort demanded, before any of the Musketeers could move a muscle. “One wrong move and the boy will bleed to death.”

The Inseparables knew even if they shot Rochefort before the other could as much as lift a finger, he would still slice d'Artagnan's throat open in the moment of his death. Therefore, they all released their grip on the weapons, holding them out to Rochefort with the butts pointing away from them. 

“Remove the ammo clip and drop them to the floor. Put the weapons down as well. In slow and smooth motions.”

They did as they were told, holding their hands in front of them to show Rochefort they were unarmed and willing to listen to him. 

“What now?” Athos asked, daring a quick glance at the Gascon's face to see how d'Artagnan was faring. 

“This,” Rochefort said, bringing his right hand up so swiftly the motion was hardly observable. Without the slightest warning or hint he shot Aramis at point-blank range.

“NO!” Porthos roared, the single word sounding like the wailing of a wounded beast.

“Aramis!” Athos shouted simultaneously, the syllables crumbling in midair like shattered glass. 

Immobilized, both men watched in horror how the marksman's body was virtually lifted a couple of centimeters from the ground by the bullet's impact and thrown back, dashing against the wall behind, the head hitting hard with a cracking sound. The body then slid along the wall, dropping to the floor where Aramis came to lie lifelessly, blood running down his temple.

Their eyes returned to a smiling Rochefort. D'Artagnan's face had lost all color, his eyes blown wide in shock, mouth hanging open though no sound escaped the boy's throat. 

“You'll pay for this,” Porthos growled with such hate in his voice it caused a cold shudder to run through Athos. Only the knife cutting into the Gascon's neck refrained the big man from lunging at Rochefort there and then.

“No,” Rochefort snarled, “it is you who'll pay. Not one of you will leave this room alive.” He took a quick step back, dragging d'Artagnan with him. A clink of metal was heard, then he stepped away from d'Artagnan, finally removing the knife from the young man's neck. Rochefort's right hand came up again, pointing the gun in the Musketeers' direction.

Only now Athos and Porthos realized that d'Artagnan's hands were bound behind his back, maybe with handcuffs given the clink they had heard, and Rochefort apparently had hitched the young man to some metal ornaments on a solid looking pillar. 

Rochefort took a step towards the Musketeers and stowed the pistol away into his waistband, unsheathing a rapier from the scabbard dangling at his left side which had been hidden before by d'Artagnan's body.

Athos and Porthos exchanged quick glances. Rochefort obviously was madder than they had thought, if this was possible at all. 

“Your choice of weapons, messieurs. If you turn sideways you'll find swords at your free disposal. And don't even think of going anywhere near Aramis,” Rochefort added before Athos could take a step toward his friend.

They both obeyed and retrieved the weapons placed on a showcase on the left side. Each of them taking a quick look at the marksman, taking in the lifeless body and the puddle of blood forming underneath his head. Sadly, there was nothing they could do for their friend. 

“You're insane, Rochefort,” Athos remarked, “You'll never stand a chance.”

“Oh, you might have been the finest swordsman in all of France in the old days, but I bet in this life you've not once lifted a rapier.” Rochefort looked from Athos to Porthos. “You may be good with fists and guns, but neither of you have fought with swords recently, am I right?”

He was right, but that was nothing Athos would share with their opponent. He bet even without training he would still be able to best the man, at least with Porthos at his side. 

“Well then, one down, one helpless observer, shall we start?” Rochefort said, making a quick lunge at Athos.

Athos was barely able to lift his sword in time and only just managed to fend off the other's blade. Unpoised, he tried to shift his weight to his right foot, ducking under Rochefort's attack. 

Porthos took a step towards the shorter man, aiming at the former spy's chest, but Rochefort parried the jab with the knife in his left hand, bringing his rapier down on Porthos' exposed sword immediately after, prompting the bigger man to stumble back.

Very soon Athos and Porthos realized that indeed Rochefort was outclassing them in regards to their swordsmanship. They were hardly able to stand against his rapid attacks and ripostes, even together. The swords Rochefort had offered them were unbalanced and did not lay in their hands as familiar as their weapons had back in their Musketeer days, and they had no parrying daggers on hand. It was a fight with unequal conditions. When Athos slipped on one of the ammo clips on the floor and fell to the ground, unable to keep his balance, Rochefort parried a stroke from Porthos, slicing the bigger man's fencing arm with his left hand parrying dagger at the same time. A second later the tip of his rapier pierced the skin on Athos neck, rendering the Musketeer immobile unless he wanted to have his artery sliced open. 

Athos froze, feeling the sharp tip of the blade cutting his skin. His eyes shifted to Porthos.

Porthos had his left hand clutched around the gash in his right arm, the rapier hanging loosely from the hand, blood trickling down the fingers. He waited for Rochefort's next move.

“So, big man, you know what? I'll give you a choice.” Rochefort dropped the knife and retrieved the gun with his left hand, pointing it at d'Artagnan. His outstretched hand was only ten centimeters, twenty at the most, away from the Gascon's face. Conveniently for Rochefort, Athos had stumbled and fallen near the young man, so Rochefort had both men in close proximity. “Shall I first shoot the boy or send Athos to meet his maker? It's your choice.”

Porthos shook his head slightly, the grim expression showing what he thought about the other's suggestion. “You are mad, Rochefort. Tréville has this place sealed off, soon it will be swamped with police, you'll never come out here alive. Just give up.”

“Strange, to hear such words from a man who is facing his end. It is you who'll not come out of this alive. I, on the other hand, have taken precautions. You know,” Rochefort spared a quick glance at Athos, “it really didn't matter if you brought the queen with you or not. She will be mine anyway. You'll die here while I walk away unhindered and no one will be able to stop me from spending the rest of my life with her.” The man was so utterly insane every word leaving his mouth dripped with madness, but it didn't help the fact it was still Rochefort pointing a gun at d'Artagnan and a sword at Athos' neck, and Porthos the one unable to save both.

Porthos' mind raced; if he lunged at the smaller man, the other would still be able to pull the trigger and the risk that d'Artagnan would be shot was too high. Athos might stand a chance if he managed to slip away the moment Porthos launched his attack, but it would not save d'Artagnan's life. The big man's eyes shifted to the Gascon. 

“Time's up, Porthos,” Rochefort said, “I'll decide for you. As much as I enjoy this all and wished to see you suffer and scream with pain, I have to meet a schedule, so we'll shorten this. You've already had the honor of watching your closest friend die.”

Porthos eyes involuntarily moved to Aramis' still form at the opposite wall, cold fingers squeezing the big man's heart. 

“I think we should give the _Comte de la Fère_ the chance to mourn, albeit briefly, the death of his young protégé. I was always under the impression the two of them shared a special bond, similar to the one you shared with the treacherous adulterer.”

“Rochefort,” Athos tried to reason with the blond man, but was stopped by the blade's painful pressure at his throat. For the very first time in his entire life, a fathomless, all-consuming fear seized hold of Athos. He had lost men before, he had seen comrades and brothers die, the most recent lying less than five meters away from him. But never had the cold claws of dread ripped at his soul like in this moment. “Don't,” he croaked.

Rochefort held the former _comte's_ gaze for a moment, then his head turned to take aim. His left hand inched upwards a few centimeters more until it was level with d'Artagnan's forehead, the finger tensing as it pulled back the trigger.

The shot resounded through the quiet of the room, louder than a thousand cannons' thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, sorry? :-)


	18. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sir, if you step aside we can cut the boy free,” an officer announced.
> 
> Athos released his grip on d'Artagnan and took a step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos and is reading this story! The response so far, especially to the last chapter, is overwhelming! Thank you so much! So, here's what happens after the shot... Enjoy!

Chapter 18  
~Brothers~

“That was about time,” Porthos growled, watching Rochefort keel over with a fine bullet hole gracing the man's temple. Then the big man's eyes moved to Aramis whose arm holding the gun was still midair. Uselessly, as all of them knew; without the ammo clip the bullet in the barrel had been the only shot. Aramis' arm dropped, his head sinking back to the floor with a groan. 

Athos was already up, rubbing away the blood on his neck where the rapier had cut into flesh when it had slipped from Rochefort's lifeless hands. “Are you okay,” he asked d'Artagnan, grabbing the younger man with both hands around the shoulders.

“Aramis, is he, is he...,” the boy stuttered, gazing past Athos to where Aramis lay on the floor.

Said man raised his arm, waving vaguely in the direction he assumed the others were standing before his arm fell back to the ground.

“Yeah, he'll be alright,” Porthos answered d'Artagnan's question, “sooner or later.” Seeing the still shocked expression on the young man's face, he added, patting his broad chest, “bulletproof vests. He'll have bruises and a headache is all.” Then he made his way over to Aramis.

The marksman stared at the ceiling until Porthos' big head slid into his field of vision. “Ouch,” Aramis said, grinning at his friend.

“You had me worried a moment, with the blood and all. What took you so long to shoot?” Porthos asked, faked anger ringing in his voice.

“Ack, as lifesaving as these vests are, it still hurts like hell. If it were possible, I'd say my lungs are broken; it damn sure feels like it.” Aramis palpated his temple where the blood started to crust. When his fingers touched the laceration and bump from when his head had made contact with the wall, the marksman grimaced. “I must have fainted when I hit my head. Help me up,” Aramis demanded, lifting his hand. 

Porthos hauled his friend up who immediately doubled over when a spike of pain shot through his head and chest simultaneously.

“Are you okay?” Athos called from where he was trying to get d'Artagnan free from the pillar. 

Aramis sank down on his knees, momentarily unable to vocalize an answer. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he felt a pain in his chest as if his rib cage was being squeezed with an iron fist every time he drew breath. His head pounded with each beat of his heart. Focusing on breathing evenly and as flat as was possible, Aramis was unaware of his surroundings for a moment. When he tuned in again he felt Porthos' frantic fingers fumbling with his shirt. “What are you doing?” he hissed, looking at his friend. Surprised, he saw genuine worry on his brother's face. 

“Getting you out of the vest. Getting a look at the damage,” Porthos muttered, going on with unbuttoning Aramis' shirt. He ripped open the rest of the garment, aware that it was useless anyway with the bullet hole grazing the front, and started ripping apart the Velcro fasteners of the bulletproof vest.

Aramis grabbed hold of the bigger man's hands. “Wait,” he rasped, “a moment.” He took a couple more breaths, then nodded to the other man.

Porthos gently helped his brother out of the vest, dropping the lifesaver carelessly to the floor. “Ouch,” he said, beholding Aramis' chest where a red bruise marked where the bullet's impact had hit hardest. “Do you think a rib's broken?”

Aramis shook his head, albeit lightly, due to the headache that had taken up residence in his head. “I don't know, cracked maybe,” he replied. “I'm okay, how's the pup?” Both men's eyes drifted to where Athos fussed over their youngster.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I thought he was dead,” d'Artagnan repeated for the fourth time, more a whiff than an utterance, the chattering of teeth making it even harder to form words. He was unable to look away from his two brothers on the other side of the room, though Porthos was blocking the boy's view of Aramis while fiddling with their marksman. 

“D'Artagnan,” Athos said, for at least the fifth time since he begun trying to get the boy free of the handcuffs. Abandoning his effort for the moment, Athos fully faced the Gascon, taking in the chattering teeth and the tremors running through the boy. “It's over. Aramis lives, Rochefort is dead. And if you give me a minute I'll have you loose from that bloody pillar.” 

“Porthos is bleeding,” d'Artagnan stuttered as if Athos was not there, or at least had not tried to calm down the boy a second before. “What's with Aramis?”

Cursing through his gritted teeth, Athos bent down to Rochefort, rummaging through the dead man's pockets for keys without the slightest hesitation. “ _Merde,”_ he muttered when his efforts turned out to be fruitless. They needed a bolt cutter, and quickly. His thoughts were not quite thought through to the end when he heard heavy footfalls in the hallways. He sighed thankfully, for the resounding footsteps could only mean reinforcement was on its way and one of them would hopefully be able to produce a bolt cutter. He turned to d'Artagnan again.

“You're bleeding,” the boy announced, finally looking Athos square in the eyes. “Your neck. Can you get me loose?” 

Athos stopped just short of pinching the bridge of his nose. The boy either was in a state of shock or had not realized it was over. That Rochefort was dead. And that all Athos had been doing for the last five minutes was trying to rid his brother of the handcuffs. Admittedly, their youngest had had a lot on his plate recently, and maybe not yet fully gotten over having his father killed, being shot and regaining the memories of a life lived 300 years ago. All within less than four weeks' time. It certainly could numb one's mind, even if the rash and amicable nature of the Gascon had made them believe otherwise. He grabbed the boy's shoulder with both his hands, trying to stop the quiver he felt there. “D'Artagnan,” he said, as soft as he was able, “Charles, it's over and Rochefort is dead. Aramis wears a bulletproof vest, as do Porthos and I. The bleeding on Porthos' arm is a mere cut,” _well, at least I hope it's just that,_ Athos thought, “and Aramis is alive. Okay?” He waited for a reaction, a sign his words had reached the boy. 

D'Artagnan's gaze strayed once more to Porthos and Aramis, both still down on the floor, and then to the heavily armed police officers pouring through the door just now. Finally his eyes settled on his former mentor. “Okay,” he nodded, “everyone's safe. Okay. It's just that I thought...” trailing off, he lowered his eyes to stare at the small cut on Athos' throat.

Athos closed the distance to d'Artagnan and hugged the younger man, squeezing his arm between pillar and body so he was able to embrace the trembling boy. His right hand came up to the Gascon's head, guiding it down until it rested on the older man's shoulder. They stayed that way until he felt someone stepping close beside him. 

“Sir, if you step aside we can cut the boy free,” an officer announced.

Athos released his grip on d'Artagnan and took a step back.

The young man looked at Athos and he could see something had settled in the other's eyes, and it calmed the older man enough to nod encouragingly at the boy and turn to see how the other two were fairing. 

Porthos and Aramis were standing, the marksman leaning a little on the bigger man's uninjured arm, both watching Athos. Aramis grinned, and that was the last time anyone saw the marksman grin for quite some time, because at this moment the paramedics entered the room, immediately starting to fuss over Porthos' bleeding arm and Aramis' still bloody, leaking head wound. When one of them made the mistake of trying to separate both men by grabbing Aramis' torso to turn him away, unaware of the bruises there, he narrowly escaped the marksman's left hook, though the Musketeer's continued swearing didn't miss its aim.

The room filled with police officers, paramedics and members of the anti-terror squad, and somewhere along the way, Tréville showed up as well, beholding Rochefort's lifeless body for some time. Then he checked on each of the Musketeers. “I assume you're going to the hospital straight from here. At least you,” he pointed to Aramis, “and you,” pointing to Porthos, “should go and see a doctor immediately. You as well,” he added, pointedly staring at Athos for a second. Having said that, he knew none of them would, but they were grown men and he had fulfilled his duty as their former and kinda still captain in reminding them. “I'll need a minutely detailed report on what happened here, but I guess it can wait until tomorrow morning.” He turned to d'Artagnan. “And you must learn to follow orders, otherwise your brothers will go grey before their time.” He smiled at the young man, glad at least one threat on his long list of problems had been erased and none of the Inseparables had come to harm. At least as measured by Musketeer standards.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As was to be expected, none of them went to see a doctor this evening, they all gathered at Athos' apartment. As usual. Whether it was because his was the most spacious of their lodgings or if it was out of a centuries-old habit – for even back in the old times, it had mostly been Athos' quarters where they had met, not because the former _comte's_ rundown rooms were the biggest, that would've been Aramis', but he'd kept the best wine – none of them could tell nor pondered over. 

They sprawled in the living room, Aramis pretty much collapsing on the couch, cursing under his breath and trying to find a position that didn't hurt like hell.

“I think you should once in your life do as Tréville says and go and see a doctor,” Athos remarked, regarding the marksman's face, contorted with pain.

“First thing in the morning,” Aramis replied with a sideways glance at Porthos, “promised. I need to get my blood checked, I'm not sure what it was Rochefort injected me with. The muscle weakening effect has worn off,” he hissed when a shift in his position spread a spike of pain through his rib cage, “but I hope they can still find some traces of what it was.” Carefully he let his head sink back on the couch cushion.

“I'll get my first aid kit,” Athos said, referring to the one he had from his time in the army. It was still equipped with some strong analgetics, usually available only by prescription. “But I'm not sewing your wound, Porthos. If it starts bleeding again you'll have to go to the hospital.” It was spoken with determination, but they all knew Athos would sew the wound anyway, should Porthos ask for it.

Earlier, they had let the paramedics fuss over them outside the Louvre, when the anti-terror-units had searched the former palace for explosives and bombs. Since Rochefort had threatened to blow the whole complex they couldn't be sure if it was a deceptive maneuver or if he had really managed to hide explosives. The attacks in the _Tuileries_ some days ago had not yet been solved, so there was a possibility Rochefort had been working with a network of terrorists or criminals who would still be willing to make a point by blowing the museum.

Porthos had insisted one of the paramedics should close his wound then and there and threatened to do it himself once they started arguing with him. When Aramis, hissing and cursing his way through having his ribs bound, asked for needle and thread, an older paramedic had rolled his eyes and laid out the things he needed to treat Porthos on location. He repeatedly told the big man it was not the most optimal treatment for a gash, but Porthos had only shrugged and urged the man to finish his work.

Athos had outright refused to allow anyone to look at the cut on this throat or the lacerations from the fight, and glowered at anyone who had dared to come near him. But he had insisted on d'Artagnan sitting down and allowing himself be checked over, though he was the only one without visible wounds. Athos suspected the boy was in a light shock, but finally the paramedics had given the green light and let them depart.

“D'Artagnan,” Athos addressed the young man who hadn't seated himself yet, “can you get us something to drink? I, at least, need something alcoholic. There's still an open bottle on the counter, and bring water, too. Please.”

D'Artagnan nodded and made his way over to the small kitchen, but stopped short of the door, abruptly turning around. He made two quick steps to Athos and hugged the older man. Next he walked to the couch and embraced both Porthos and Aramis, careful of the marksman's injuries. It was an awkward angle and the men on the couch could only sling their arms around the bony shoulders and bring their heads together with the boy's head, but it was the gesture that counted and they appreciated the display of emotion all the same. Then d'Artagnan hurried into the kitchen.

About an hour later, all four of them comfortably ensconced in Athos' living room suite, sipping wine and beer and water and licking their wounds, the door bell rang. It was such an unnatural sound in the homely quietness of the flat and an odd hour to expect visitors, each of them looked a little alarmed. Athos rose to check the video intercom and gave an all-clear signal. A moment later Tréville stepped through the door, carrying an enormous bag from _Les Bouquinistes_ , an upscale French cuisine restaurant on the Quai de Grand Augustins. Athos knew they didn't offer take-away dishes, but the smell wafting out of the bag proved otherwise. Evidently, Tréville had connections.

“Gentlemen,” the _commissaire_ greeted and put the bag on the coffee table. “Why am I not surprised to find you all here instead of at the hospital? Anyway, I brought dinner in case anyone is hungry.”

He might be chief inspector in this life and responsible for a police station none of the Inseparables were part of, but he was still their captain and cared for his men. It was a gesture which touched every single Musketeer to the core. 

Athos fetched plates and cutlery from the kitchen and Tréville helped himself to a plate full of food, then went straight to the point. 

“Rochefort had indeed deposited explosives in the Richelieu wing as well as the main entrance. I'm convinced he wasn't operating alone, he must have had helpmates,” Tréville started his report, “and it will take us some time to get to the bottom of the network Rochefort was involved in. We couldn't find any suspects in the vicinity of the Louvre, but my men are already sifting through the CCTV footage of both the Louvre and the close proximity. Sooner or later we'll find something. Besides, the explosives expert is certain he's seen similar bombs before, each bomb maker has his own way of putting them together, so there's hope we can track down the one who put together those we found, and get the name of his employers.”

The Musketeers helped themselves to the food, intently listening to Tréville's report.

“I've also news from Lupiac,” the captain continued, his eyes shifting to where d'Artagnan sat.

The Gascon stopped eating and looked at Tréville. Everyone could see the boy's shoulders tense in expectation of what the commissioner was about to tell them.

“Rochefort bribed the responsible chief inspector to close the investigation and delete everything from the system. The inspector also spirited away the police file, though he was decent enough to not put it through the shredder. He kept the file at his house and one of the officers I tasked with the case was able to retrieve it from his home. Naturally, we'll pick up the case and it won't be long before we'll have the case solved and closed and you can send a full police report and the expert opinion to the insurance.”

D'Artagnan smiled lightly. “Thank you, it'll be a relief for my mother. Though I can't believe how easy it was for Rochefort to stop a police investigation.”

“Yes, it's alarming, especially how he managed to get hold of private information about police officers. It seems his years in Spanish prisons, and his criminal career before and after, gave him a vast network he could fall back on.”

“Did he bribe the whole Lupiac police station?” Aramis asked, thinking back to his phone calls with various officers there, all of them kind and forthcoming. He wondered if he was so easily hoodwinked by others. “How did he manage it?”

“No,” Tréville sighed, “it seems he really only needed to bribe the chief inspector. Lupiac is a small town and the police station a small outpost. There are only three police officers working there, plus the chief inspector. All of them loyal to a fault. When the commissioner declared the case was closed and no information was to be given to anyone, they accepted his decision without closer examination. It turned out the chief inspector's daughter is ill, she's suffering Duchenne muscular dystrophy. It's non healable, but one can delay and ease the progress of the disease with various applications, physiotherapy, medication and so on. All of them expensive and time-consuming. The inspector's wife is also ill, and the money Rochefort offered and paid was too alluring.” Tréville let his gaze sweep over his men and sighed. “I cannot even condemn the man. He acted out of desperation and love for his daughter.” The captain swiped a hand over his face.

“What will happen to him?” Porthos asked.

“He's suspended and will face a trial.”

“I hope he was able to spend as much of the money for his daughter's treatment as possible,” Aramis remarked quietly.

Tréville looked at the marksman for a long while, then gazed out of the window. “You know, oddly enough, the officers I tasked with the investigation in Lupiac weren't able to get hold of any money. It seems it has vanished. Spirited away.”

Tréville stayed for another half hour before he took his leave, reminding Athos once more that he needed the Musketeer's report early the next day.

After Tréville had left, the Musketeers discussed the last days' course of events a little longer, and a comfortable quiet set in again after a while as every man dwelt on his thoughts. At some point Aramis' head sunk down on Porthos' shoulder and it wasn't long before the marksman was asleep. A glance in d'Artagnan's direction confirmed that the boy was also already sleeping. “We should call it a day and go to bed,” Athos whispered to Porthos.

The big man nodded, stretched his legs out on the coffee table in front of the couch and put an arm around Aramis' shoulder, dragging the smaller man a little closer to his broad chest. “Night,” he said, closing his eyes.

Athos shook his head, got up to switch off the lights and returned to his armchair. He had a comfy bed waiting for him in his bedroom, but he couldn't see any point in going there when everything he needed was right here in front of him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At around two in the morning Aramis had to pee and emerged from Porthos’ embrace. He took half a step towards the door before he stumbled over the bigger man's outstretched legs and plummeted to the floor with a cry of pain. Porthos started up from his sleep, knocked a glass from the side table and stomped his left foot on Aramis' stomach, eliciting another cry of pain from the man on the floor. 

“What the....” Athos shot bolt upright in his chair, grabbing for his gun which was not there. From the left side a thud was heard, followed by moaning and groaning and cursing, indicating d'Artagnan most likely had fallen from his armchair and landed on his injured side.

With two strides Athos reached the light switch and illuminated the scene. D'Artagnan lay on the floor beside the armchair, blinking at the ceiling and cradling his side with one arm. Porthos was helping a hissing and groaning Aramis from where he had fallen between couch and coffee table, a stream of apologies tumbling from the big man's lips.

“D'Artagnan, are you hurt?” Athos demanded, shuffling to the boy to help him up.

The Gascon accepted the offered hand and let the older man haul him up. “No,” he answered the question, “not more than I was before, anyway.” He stretched his arms over his head, stopping at the midway point, grimacing. “I'm going to my bed.” That said, he stumbled in the direction of his room, still half asleep, and was gone.

Athos watched him until the door to the guest room had closed behind the boy, turning to Porthos thereafter. ”You and Aramis can share my bed, I'll sleep on the couch.”

Porthos stretched properly on the couch, propping his head on the armrest. “'m comfy here. Just turn off the lights.”

The big man closed his eyes and Athos was under the impression Porthos had managed to fall asleep again within a second or two. Athos grabbed the blanket d'Artagnan had crumpled up in his armchair earlier and spread it out over his friend, squinting his eyes to assess whether there was a reaction from Porthos. Which there was not, because in fact the big man already was asleep.

Aramis stumbled through the door bleary-eyed. “Where's d'Artagnan?”

“Asleep in his bed, I presume,” Athos answered, watching their marksman gaze through the room.

“Fine, I'll take his armchair, it looks more comfortable than yours,” Aramis mumbled and made his way over to the recently abandoned piece of furniture. He was stopped in his tracks by Athos' hand grabbing his arm.

“My bed is big enough for two, as you might remember, no need to torment your body further.”

Aramis stopped and looked at the older man, a response forming on his tongue.

“I wouldn't offer it if I didn't mean it.” And he truly did. He still wasn't fond of sharing his bed, with anyone, and especially not with someone tending to glue himself to his bed-partner. But it had been a hard day for all of them, and Athos was pretty sure the marksman would spend his nights to come in another warm and cosy bed, and would most likely never again befall Athos' bed. Looked at in this light, what was one more night of bed-sharing? 

The serious tone caused Aramis to take a closer look, then he smiled, nodding. “Thanks.”

Athos would never voice it, but he was sure both of them would benefit from sharing a bed this night.


	19. Listen to your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _D'Artagnan struggled to keep himself on his feet, a task that was getting harder and harder. He had to find them, before his strength gave way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. RL is not cooperating and I have a lot on my plate at the moment. :-(
> 
> Here it is, eventually, the chapter where we'll learn what happened to d'Artagnan. Like before, if you don't want to read about the Inseparables' deaths, please skip the passage in _italics_ at the end of this chapter.
> 
> Also, I should maybe add tissue warning for the end, if you tend to weep easily. Enjoy! ;-)

Chapter 19  
~Listen to your heart~

Waking the next morning, Athos doubted his sanity for a moment, staring at the dimly lit ceiling with a feeling between embarrassment and contentment. Sure as hell, Aramis clung to the older man, his face snuggled into Athos' shoulder, the left arm draped over the others stomach. What surprised Athos, however, was the fact that he had his arm slung around the marksman, his friend's head resting on Athos' arm. He realized further he didn't mind one bit. To be on the safe side and to spare himself from being the target of his friends' endless teasing in the future, he untangled his arm from Aramis after another few minutes of silent contentment, and made his way to the bathroom. 

Porthos left early to go and get fresh clothes for him and Aramis. The marksman was stiff and in pain and Porthos helped him dress like one would help a child, Aramis cursing and Porthos making fun of it through the whole process. Afterwards Porthos drove his friend to the hospital.

As opposed to the evening prior when he had been almost too quiet, D'Artagnan chattered continuously during breakfast, which consisted of black coffee for Athos and toast, yogurt with muesli, an orange, an apple and two café au lait for d'Artagnan. Listening to the meaningless ramblings, Athos knew it was time to speak with the boy, and he made the decision to not defer it any longer. This afternoon he would have a heart to heart talk with him.

“I'll have to put the report for Tréville together. You can spend the morning here and come to the office later, maybe Porthos and Aramis will come by again after the hospital. I'll write the report and meet with Tréville.” Athos rose to leave the flat. “Try and get some more sleep. See you later.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“If you need anything else, or a statement from d'Artagnan, call me,” Athos finished after he'd discussed the events at the Louvre with Tréville. 

“I'll let you know,” the captain answered, putting the report aside. “There's something else. I received a call from Germany yesterday. Louis isn't coming. It seems his wife is ill and they have already planned a trip or holiday the week after next. For the time being, we don't have to concern ourselves with his visit.”

“That's a relief, I hope it'll be a long time before he thinks about coming to Paris again,” Athos sighed, feeling more relieved than he would have presumed.

“Should we tell her?” Tréville asked.

“Whom? Anne?”

“Yes.”

Athos stared at the captain for a moment. “No. There's no need to inform her now that he's not coming. If she learns of him through the tabloids, fine. But I see no point in telling her at the moment. I'll speak with Aramis, though. Let him decide.”

Tréville nodded. “Maybe it's best if she don't know, at least as long as there's no risk their paths will cross.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos returned to the office and found Aramis and Porthos there, but not their youngest friend. “Did you see d'Artagnan?” 

“No,” Porthos replied, “we came straight to the office after the hospital, and he's not been here since.”

“Okay, I just thought you might have stopped by my apartment. I hope he's sleeping, I told him to rest and come to the office later.” Athos returned to his _bureau_.

Charlène had placed her niece's application papers on Athos' desk while he had been to the police station. He needed only one look at the papers to know the office had just hired a new secretary, though he still would have to discuss it with Aramis and Porthos, and most importantly with d'Artagnan. The niece's name was printed in bold letters on top of the front sheet of her CV, along with her address somewhere in the _département_ Drôme and a colored picture. The name read Constance Bonacieux, and she looked every bit like the cloth merchant's wife they had known back in time. Even the age was roughly the same as when he had first met her, just turned 21. Oh, he couldn't wait to spread the news to his fellow companions. 

For reasons of convenience he wrote an e-mail to the other two, smirking as he did so. 

_My office. Now!_

Exactly 35 seconds later Aramis materialized in the door frame, Porthos appearing behind the marksman only 3 seconds later.

“You summoned us, o captain?” Aramis asked and slumped down on the couch, immediately regretting it when a hiss escaped his lips.

“I'm going to hire a second secretary. The workload has increased and Charlène is not able to see to it all alone. She'd asked for help and conveniently suggested hiring her niece who's moving to Paris this summer. I've more or less already contracted her, or promised Charlène I would, but I'd like to hear your opinion, too.” Athos grabbed the application form with the photo, holding it out to Aramis and Porthos.

Smiles appeared on both men's faces. “By all means, Athos, we definitely need to hire a second secretary!” Porthos grinned.

“Ahh, this will be so much fun!” Aramis shouted excitedly, “Wait till d'Artagnan sees her!” Suddenly the expression of mirth dropped from his face. He looked at the others.

D'Artagnan..... They had to solve another problem before they could break the news of Constance's hiring to the boy. From one moment to the next the mood was somewhat subdued.

Athos cleared his throat. “I'll speak to him today. What's with your blood results?”

“Fine,” Aramis answered, “a first screening showed nothing alarming or out of the ordinary, but the proper blood results will not be available until the day after tomorrow.”

“Your rib cage?”

“Bruised, nothing's broken.”

“Yeah, and the doctor said it'll take at least four weeks to heal and stop aching,” Porthos added, lest his brother missed mentioning this fact and forgot to take it easy for the next few weeks. “And one or two blood values _were_ anomalous.”

Aramis glowered at his friend.

“Your arm?” Athos asked, while he was at it, turning to Porthos.

“Fine. No infection, healing perfectly well.”

“Good,” the older man replied. “I spoke with Tréville, he might need reports from all of you, about what happened at the Louvre and your time in his captivity. The police will also investigate further regarding the disappearance of Anne's husband, though I think it wouldn't be bad to continue with our research as well. They have enough on their plates with the Louvre incidents at the moment. Do you want to go on with this, Aramis?” 

The marksman nodded. “Yes, definitely.”

“Porthos, you can help me with a new assignment if you've nothing else at the moment. It wasn't urgent last week, but now we should really start with it. I promised results by the end of this month.”

“Aye, we can start right away,” the big man replied, slouching on the chair in front of Athos' desk while Aramis rose from the couch.

Aramis returned to his office and Porthos and Athos went through the new assignment's material. Half past eleven Aramis and Porthos left the office together; the marksman to meet with the officer responsible in Tréville's commissariat for the Autriche case, Porthos to check the surroundings of the subject's workplace they had to observe for the new case. He promised to pick up Aramis on his way back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Athos, do you have a moment?” d'Artagnan lingered in the door, waiting for a response before he properly stepped into the room. 

Athos looked up. He hadn't heard d'Artagnan coming into the office; a quick glance at the screen's clock told him it was almost midday. Seeing the grave expression on d'Artagnan's face, the older man felt his stomach flip. “Of course, come in.” Athos watched the young man carefully close the door behind him, then gestured for d'Artagnan to take a seat on the sofa. Athos rose and rounded his desk. “What is it?” Athos asked, sure he already knew the answer. It seemed the boy had anticipated Athos' intention to eventually speak about the events after the battle of Rocroi.

D'Artagnan looked to Athos and then away.

“D'Artagnan,” Athos said softly, sitting down next to the boy, “I know it's hard, but we need to learn what happened.” He put a hand on the young man's shoulder, feeling it tremble underneath his grip.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Charlène, is Athos in?” Aramis asked as he stepped into the office. Porthos had picked him up at the police station and on their way back they had stopped at Athos' apartment to look after the pup and ask if he wanted to join them for lunch. But the boy had not answered the door. 

Charlène didn't look up from what she was doing “In his office, with d'Artagnan.”

“Thanks,” Aramis replied, walking over to the former _comte's_ office. He knocked for form's sake, entering the office at the same time, Porthos trailing close behind him. The tableau in front of them made Aramis stop dead in his tracks.

Athos leaned against his desk with an expression Aramis was sure he had never before seen on their leader's face. D'Artagnan sat on the couch, and when he looked up, the marksman could see the telltale red around the eyes, immediately giving away what conversation must have taken place between the two.

“Sit down,” Athos rasped, more an order than a request.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_D'Artagnan struggled to keep himself on his feet, a task that was getting harder and harder. He had to find them, before his strength gave way. He was glad he had been able to deceive Etienne so easily, but then it had always been easy for him, more or less. Athos would be furious with him, but with a spike of pain he remembered Athos was no more and would never again glare at him, reprimanding him for something. None of his brothers would. He needed to find them, to see them one last time. His hand, clutching his side, was sticky with blood and it HURT. If he did not find them soon, he was …_

_Something blue caught his eyes and d'Artagnan felt a wave of relief wash over him. It was Aramis' sash. It_ had to _be his sash. He dragged his feet, forcing them to keep walking until he could sink down beside the marksman and Porthos. “Thank you, God,” he whispered, touching both men's faces with shaking hands, yet so tenderly and gently. He wasn't aware of the tears running down his face nor of the words escaping his mouth; he had only eyes for his fallen brothers. He had no sense of time as to how long he had knelt there before he parted from them, planting a last kiss on each man's brow._

_He fell to the ground twice before he finally managed to lift his body upright. It hurt and he knew his strength was seeping out of his body with every drop of blood. The red liquid's flow at his side had lessened, but his breeches were sticky and brown from soaking up his lifeblood. His time was running out and he NEEDED to find him, his brother, his captain. He should be nearby, for that was how they'd always fought. Close together._

_He spotted Athos and stumbled the few meters before his legs gave way. His strength was depleted, but it didn't matter; there was no need for it anymore. Weeping like a child he slumped to the ground beside the dead man's body, resting his head on his brother's chest...._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_And then, he woke again to unbearable pain, hearing voices he couldn't understand. What filled his brain was agony and the shudders running through his body like molten metal, leaving no place for comprehension. Through the haze of pain in his head, d'Artagnan finally could make out a voice._

 _“Maman, he is waking.”_

 _

Someone touched his face and he would have flinched from the pain this caused, had he still had the strength for it.

“Monsieur, can you hear me?” 

It was another voice, higher and gentler than the voice before. 

“Do you hear me? Can you understand me?” 

D'Artagnan forced his eyes to open, at least a little, and he could see a woman's face hovering above him.

_

Yes, I understand you, _he wanted to answer, but his mouth wouldn't obey._

 _“Monsieur, we found you on the field. Can you tell us which regiment you're from? French or Spanish?”_

 _

The way she pronounced the word Spanish suggested she would rather not want him to be, but the gentle mien didn't change. 

“You're gravely wounded, we tried our best, but I don't think you'll survive the night. Maybe you want us to send a note to someone? Do you speak our language?”

_

Didn't they see he wore the Musketeers' uniform? _d'Artagnan wondered, but then it occurred to him maybe he had been stripped of anything of worth by someone who had no hesitation about robbing the dead._ “Please, tell Constance I love her and always will! Tell her I'm sorry! Tell her I thought of her at death's door, that my last breath bore her name...,” _d'Artagnan replied, begged, but the words formed only in his head, no sound left his mouth._

 _“Maman, I don't think he understands us. Maybe he is Spanish or Walloon.”_

_“It doesn't matter,_ ma douce, _he is someone's beloved son and shall not die alone.”_

_D'Artagnan felt his hand being placed in a soft palm, smaller than his, enveloped with the warmth and comfort of a second hand, and it was the gesture of a mother's love, a gesture of such tenderness and peace that suddenly he felt at ease, despite the pain and grief. He was ready to let go._ Tell Constance I love her.... 

_And then, over the stream of whispered prayers beside his bed, feeling his life fade away, he thought he heard another, achingly familiar voice, faint but clear and deep._

“Come, d'Artagnan, we are waiting for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the final chapter! I promised a happy ending to this story and won't let it end on such a sad note. There's still the issue with Richelieu.... And a few more things that need to be wrapped up. So.... ;-)


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised Richelieu; I promised a happy end; there might even be stuff for a sequel...... Enjoy!

Chapter 20  
~Epilogue~

“We have an assignment on Saturday,” Athos announced as soon as he stepped through the door to join his brothers. “Security service at the Comic Con.”

Porthos and Aramis stared at their undisputed leader with wide eyes, mouths hanging open slightly, both men nursing similar thoughts. While Aramis didn't believe in extraterrestrials and wondered if Athos had gone mad without his closest friends knowing about it, Porthos wasn't averse to believing in extraterrestrial life and squinted his eyes to make out if Athos had been replaced by some alien replica. No money in the world would ever motivate Athos to attend a Comic Con or similar events, neither private nor on business.

Only d'Artagnan beamed up excitedly. “Um, great! Or not?” he added with a sideways glance to his older brothers still staring at Athos.

“You're not serious, are you?” Aramis finally was able to express, almost at the same time as Porthos opened his mouth.

“What do you want there? It's a dull job, surrounded by strange people in costumes and actors who think they are important,” Porthos stuttered, trying to speak around his astonishment.

“And we have not nearly enough manpower to do such a job,” Aramis added, in the absence of a better argument.

“We are enough men for the job. We're not responsible for the whole security, just for the British panel on the second floor, so calm down. I thought you'd be happy to hear it,” Athos replied dryly as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aramis still stared at Athos, trying to see the older man's point. “Are you serious?” he repeated, because now he was convinced Athos was definitely wrong in the garret.

“The British panel, Aramis,” Athos replied, stressing every word as if he was speaking to someone dim-witted. “They'll have a big corner with Dr. Who stuff, and that's where we are posted. One of the actors making an appearance is the current Doctor himself. If you get what I mean.” Expectantly watching the younger man he saw understanding dawning on the others' faces.

“Richelieu?” Porthos asked, having finally made the connections as well.

“The very same,” Athos answered, a sly smile adorning his features. “And here's the plan,” he started, explaining to his brothers how they would do the job.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On Saturday, LaFère Security showed up about an hour before the doors opened to the fans, making themselves familiar with the location. Being in charge of only a manageable area on the second floor meant they didn't have to care about the overall security of the place but were only responsible for the actors attending the British panel; which were only few, Peter Capaldi being the most prominent one. 

They endured the hours ticking away until finally the Doctor himself showed up, taking a seat behind the long desk at the place that had been prepared for him. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan moved a little closer to the area where two actors from Dr. Who and one from another TV show willingly answered questions, handed out autographs and let the fans take pictures. The discussion on the small platform was over and the next one was due in about half an hour, so the Inseparables could concentrate on the fans swarming to the long desk with the actors. Aramis had vanished the moment Capaldi had made an appearance, but a short while later Porthos spotted him at the end of the queue waiting to get to talk to the Doctor. Aramis had removed the name tag and his belt identifying him as security personal and also switched his black shirt. Now he looked like the average fan, sans costume. Porthos grinned.

When he finally stood directly opposite the man, Aramis simply stared at Richelieu. He couldn't detect any hint of recognition in the older man's face.

“Hello,” Capaldi greeted Aramis in his most charming voice, grabbing another printed picture from the pile, “would you like to have a personal dedication?” The man smiled expectantly at Aramis. If he wondered why his fan still stared at him wide-eyed, he didn't let it show.

“For Adele, please,” Aramis rasped through gritted teeth. This was harder to bear than he had expected.

The actor scribbled over the picture, holding it out to Aramis with a smile afterwards. “There you go.”

Out of the corner of his eye Aramis saw Athos move closer at the back of the booth and he could literally feel Porthos nearing him from the right side. He stretched out his left arm to grab the autograph. “Thank you, Adele will very much appreciate it.” Then his right arm shot forward and he punched Richelieu square in the surprised face. The former cardinal's head flew back and he keeled over with his chair, probably hitting his head hard on the floor. At least Aramis hoped he did. Next, a flurry of activity started around him.

The other two actors seated further to the left looked shocked and rose from their seats, uncertain what was going on. Some of the fans nearest to the desk had screamed in shock, moving away from Aramis while others pushed forward, mobiles already in hand to take pictures. Athos quickly stepped to Richelieu, bending down over the man.

Porthos pushed his way through the gathering crowd. “Let me through, security. Everything's under control. Move!” he hollered, shoving people aside. He reached Aramis together with d'Artagnan, grabbing his friends' arm. “Everything's under control, no need to worry,” he shouted once more, leading Aramis away through the crowd. “Step back, please!”

D'Artagnan trailed behind them until they had reached a corner, Porthos dragging Aramis along the floor to a small room. There, the Gascon mused, both men were probably laughing their asses off for a moment before going on with the plan. D'Artagnan returned to Athos who just helped the actor get up again.

“Are you hurt?” Athos asked, looking the man up and down. There was already a bruise forming around the former cardinal's left eye; he would soon sport a formidable black eye.

“Well, obviously, as you might see. I also knocked my head.”

“Do you need medical assistance? D'Artagnan,” Athos addressed their young friend, “go and get the paramedics.” 

“No,” Capaldi quickly put in, “that won't be necessary. I'll just go to the restroom for a moment and assess the damage myself. Did you catch the lunatic?” he asked, staring at Athos.

“Yes, my colleagues have taken care of him, they'll see to everything, don't worry.” Athos knew exactly what 'see to everything' meant in Aramis' case; he might as well have told Richelieu here and now that sadly the lunatic had been able to escape without the possibility of getting ahold of his personal data. If the actor wanted to press charges he would have to charge against a person unknown. It was unfortunate but unavoidable and Athos was looking forward to informing the man of those circumstances. He watched their former counterpart make his way to the restroom, then bent down to pick up the chair.

“I'm sorry for the disturbance, but everything is under control. Monsieur Capaldi will be back in a few minutes. Please go on,” Athos gestured to the bystanders, nodding towards the other two actors who had taken their seats again. He retreated to the far right side of the booth where d'Artagnan joined him. Watching the activities go on they waited for Porthos to come back; they still had two more hours of security service to pass until the doors were closed and their assignment was over. And they were one man down, though they all hoped no one would notice that from now on only three security people from LaFère were observing the place.

Porthos joined them half an hour later after reporting the incident to the responsible head of security, admitting ashamedly the culprit had managed to escape before they could get hold of the personal data. Porthos had assured the head of security that one of their team members was already chasing the fugitive and would give a report as soon as he had caught him again. That Aramis was quasi chasing himself was a fact Porthos wisely didn't mention.

Capaldi threw them black looks every so often, the Inseparables returning them with what they hoped were guilty looking innocence. Otherwise, the actor gave not the slightest hint he knew who they were or who he had been. Since they all knew how Richelieu had died and it was more than unlikely that Aramis' punch had caused even the slightest of heart-attacks, the man would end this day with a black eye, a sore head and a question as to why one of his fans had hit him with brutal force.

They met with Aramis at the office after the assignment, the marksman welcoming each of them with a sincere and heartfelt hug. “Thank you,” he whispered into Athos' ear before letting go of the man. He couldn't suppress a grin anymore and soon the men's booming laughter echoed through the office.

“You should have seen his face the second before I hit him,” Aramis gasped through fits of laughter, “utter and total incomprehension.”

“He still wore that expression when I heaved him up,” Athos joined in, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“I wonder if he'll ever regain his memory, and if so, if he’ll remember this moment,” d'Artagnan mused, once he had enough breath to voice something.

“Thank you, all of you,” Aramis uttered sincerely. “It's not the revenge I would have loved to have for what he did, but given the times we live in, I guess it's all I'll ever get. In any way, it felt good.” He grinned happily before announcing, “Drinks are on me tonight!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The very same evening of Aramis' revenge on Richelieu, Athos shared the news of Constance's application with d'Artagnan, offering him the decision whether or not they should hire her. 

“I know I should have told you earlier, but I wasn't sure of your reaction. If you say no, it's fine. If you need time to think about it, take however long you need.”

After a speechless moment of surprise, d'Artagnan smiled at Athos. “Is it really her? Of course you have to hire her. Please, Athos! I would --” the young man gulped, face growing serious, “I would love to see her again,” he finished, quietly, seriously.

The look d'Artagnan displayed spoke of so much hope and joy and expectation, that Athos had to swallow hard, his heart suddenly hurting. He hoped it was the right decision and he would not have to see the boy's hopes crushed. “I'll tell Charlène tomorrow.”

On the first day of August, when Paris was emptied of its residents and the sun burnt down relentlessly on streets and buildings, Constance Bonacieux had the first day in her new job. Athos and Aramis showed up early in the office to greet her and give her a warm welcome to the firm, before Charlène showed her around and explained everything she needed to know. Porthos appeared an hour later, coming from a client meeting, and he had problems supressing the broad smile which had plastered itself on his face the moment he had laid eyes on the young woman. The smile was still there two hours later. Who was not there was d'Artagnan.

Still sharing the apartment with Athos, the young man had spent more time than usual in the bathroom this morning. The older man had shouted through the closed door d'Artagnan could come to the office whenever he was finished, no pressing assignments waiting for them this day. He had not thought the young Gascon would take hours to finish with his morning ablutions. Slightly worried, he grabbed his mobile to call the boy, but was put through to voice mail.

Shortly before lunch the office door opened and d'Artagnan entered.

Aramis, who had an unobstructed view of the entrance, immediately saw d'Artagnan blanch, the facial color dropping a shade, the olive skin turning the tone of a sun-bleached wheat field. Aramis rose to get a better look.

“D'Artagnan,” Charlène shouted excitedly, “finally. I'd like to introduce you to my niece, Constance.” She dragged the young woman from behind the counter to meet with d'Artagnan in the reception area. “Constance, this is d'Artagnan.”

Constance smiled at d'Artagnan, stretching out her hand.

The Gascon grabbed the hand, shaking it a tad too vigorous. “Hi, I'm Charles,” d'Artagnan mumbled, “but everyone calls me d'Artagnan. So, you also can call me d'Artagnan. Or Charles, whatever you prefer. Um, nice to meet you,” he stuttered, not making the best of first impressions.

The young man's color, Aramis noticed with interest, had changed again. A slight rose tint covered the cheeks now while the ears had gone almost a dark red. Amused, Aramis watched Constance blush, too. The marksman knew women like none other, or at least he was convinced he did. This, he knew, was true love at first sight, if he'd ever seen it. The sparkle in the young woman's eyes and the way she looked at d'Artagnan left no doubts. Aramis was sure two kindred souls had just found each other.

“My aunt has already told me a lot about you. I'm glad I was offered the job here. She says you're from Gascony?”

“Yes. You're new to Paris, too, right? If you'd like, I can show you around a little after work.”

Now Constance beamed, though beamed was not the right word; she shone from her innermost part, the glow almost blinding those watching it. “That would be great! Thank you, I'd really love to..., um, if you could show me around.”

Athos, who had watched the scene leaning in his office's door, didn't deem himself as being one versed in the art of knowing and understanding women. That was and had always been Aramis' métier. However, seeing Constance beam at d'Artagnan the way she did, he compared it to watching the sun rise after the darkest of nights, filling the room with warmth and light and hope, turning the world around into molten silver, allowing a brief glimpse of paradise. Only, this was the phrase he had already used to mentally describe the moment he'd watched Anne meet Aramis, after they had retrieved the marksman from Rochefort's clutches. So, instead, he thought witnessing Constance and d'Artagnan stare at each other, was like regarding the fresh and new morning's dew on the lavender coated fields of the Provence in the first light of sunrise, clear as crystals and warm like Caribbean waters, speaking of the promise that this day was going to be the first day of the best summer of one's life, a summer filled with warm days, lazy evenings, love and happiness and wonderful memories a thousandfold. And Athos was sure it was exactly this. The first day of the best life d'Artagnan would ever have, a life filled with the love and hope and happiness he had not been granted earlier. The Gascon's Musketeer life had been too short; this life, Athos hoped, would make up for that loss. And Athos felt blessed to be able to be part of it again. And, he mused, if he was really, really lucky, he would once more be allowed to walk the bride down the aisle, when the time came.....

Porthos, watching from his side of the office, was _still_ grinning like a madman, and he was under the impression he wouldn't be able to stop it today. He couldn't care less, though.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Just under half a year after the disappearance of Anne's husband the police still had found neither Monsieur Autriche nor his corpse. Everyone was convinced Rochefort had killed the man, but because no proof in that regard had been found, he could neither be declared dead nor could Anne divorce him. Aramis, his brothers knew, suffered from this circumstance more than Anne, and more than he was willing to let the others know. 

Tréville, though the case was not his jurisdiction, still had two of his men working on it, and he was convinced he would soon be able to present results. In case the police had proof of Monsieur Autriche's death, even without a body, he could be declared dead immediately. Tréville had every intention of reaching this goal by year's end, and he told Anne and Aramis so when they had come to the police station one sunny October morning to provide a DNA sample from Anne's husband. Later, Tréville joined them and the rest of LaFère Security, sans Charlène who was off sick, for lunch.

It was not really surprising to his brothers and those close to Aramis that, after the main course, the first word Anne's son Henri uttered were neither _maman_ nor ball. It was _papa_ the toddler repeated happily in a kind of singsong while grabbing at Aramis' beard with his tiny fingers. Aramis stared at the child in his arms wide-eyed, unsure if he heard right, while little Henri proudly babbled his first ever-spoken word on and on; it seemed he liked the sound of it as much as he loved to pull at Aramis' whiskers. When he looked over to Anne, everyone could see a shimmer of tears in the corners of the marksman's eyes; the roguish grin on the erstwhile queen's face was telltale enough about who had taught the child this word, whispering it in the infant's ears time and again. It was a token, visible to anyone, of the place and role Aramis would hold in the life of Anne and her child; a fact which pleased Aramis' brothers beyond all measures.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anne Breuil landed at _Charles de Gaulle_ on a cold and wet November evening, the touch down disturbing her in her musings. She would have to wait until her return to London to see if her former employer, once the most powerful man in all of France, was interested in her service again. First, she had other important things to see to; Richelieu was not the most pressing point on her list of old acquaintances and hated foes she was determined to seek out. 

She wondered for how long her ex-husband and the close friends he had managed to rally around him once again, had known of their old lives, and if the little seamstress and the former queen did, too. In the end, it was not important, and there were others she needed to see first. Those who would fit perfectly into her little revenge campaign.

“Bonjour, Madame de Winter,” the young officer greeted her over eagerly, handing back the faked passport, “welcome to Paris”.

“It's Milady, not _madame_ ,” she hissed, grabbing the passport. Then she made her way through security.

Oh, she already knew whom she would start with......

.  
.  
.  
.  
_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m truly overwhelmed by the feedback for this story. THANK YOU so much for reading, commenting, subscribing and leaving kudos. I never thought this story would receive such a response. I'm really touched and still floating in a bubble of bliss. :-)
> 
> Some readers asked for more in this verse, and I realized I would like to continue the journey with our four boys in modern day Paris. There are still some old foes and issues I haven’t addressed yet and would like to write about, so many possibilities. Louis confronting Aramis; Anne’s husband; Aramis’ blood results; Milady; Grimaud; and many more. There’ll be a second part where we’ll find out more about all these things, but it will take a while - hopefully not too long. I'd be glad to see you again then.... ;-)


End file.
